


Mr. Fix It

by cairistiona



Series: Breathe, Focus [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Can Take Care of Himself, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Bucky has panic attacks, Fluff, Gen, Making Friends, Pancakes, Recovery is bumpy, domestic bucky, good memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-05-23 00:47:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6099346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cairistiona/pseuds/cairistiona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the run for nearly a year after leaving Steve Rogers on the banks of the Potomac, Bucky's found a quiet hiding place in a city far from there, where he can work on becoming an actual human being again. Not CA:CW compliant except for characterization.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Bucky belongs to Marvel. I just own the action figure and a wild imagination.
> 
> Many thanks to my Betas Three: Imbecamiel, Nefhiriel and Nath. Your combined support and enthusiasm keeps me writing.
> 
> A/N: Something that started as setting-writing practice but quickly took on a life of its own. AU for the MCU, probably, though I took some cues from some of the Civil War photos, most notably what seems to be Bucky's apartment. I liked the idea of Bucky living on his own, trying to work through his problems and just trying to be a human again. It...mostly fits my Breathe, Focus series so I'm including it there. Chronologically, it precedes "Orders Acknowledged" and "Not Fit For Duty".

Bucky Barnes bent his head and pulled his collar tighter against the frigid St. Louis wind. Why he bothered, he didn't know, because the jacket was nowhere near heavy enough for the weather, not even with two shirts and a hooded sweatshirt underneath. He tucked his chin to his chest anyway and squinted with watering eyes as he walked against the driving snow. He seemed to be the only idiot in the city stumbling through the blizzard, so at least the risk of blindly bumping into anyone was low. His boots made little crunching sounds on the layer of snow covering the sidewalk. Left, right, left, right…watching his feet trudge forward in the whiteness, it felt almost like the world was moving while he actually stood still. Trees and trash cans, fire hydrants and cars—they passed by the edges of his vision like apparitions, all color and detail washed away by the scourge of winter.

About the same time he lost most of the feeling in his feet, the brick apartment building he called home loomed on his right, reassuringly red and solid. He hurried up the steps and huddled in the doorway as he fumbled with numb fingers to find his keys in his coat pocket. He dropped them twice before finally sorting out the right one and rattling it into the keyhole. He let himself in, then shoved the door closed, jiggling the knob up and down until he finally heard it latch. He remembered to step over the peeled-up edge of the faded green linoleum as he walked into the foyer. He grimaced at the trail of snow he left behind.

_I need to fix that lino and mop up the mess…_

For now, though, he simply pulled the yellow "Wet Floor" signboard out from where it was folded against the wall and set it over the blobs of rapidly melting snow. He glanced up and down the two hallways that stretched into the dimly-lit distance. All the doors were shut and, for a change, no music rattled the building, nor, thankfully, were there any jittery meth addicts bouncing off the walls and muttering about the bugs crawling under their skin. Just last week, he'd tossed out a meth head who'd wandered in off the street when someone hadn't latched the door completely.

He hurried to the stairwell, trying not to breathe in too deeply. The building reeked of urine, mold, cooked cabbage and, because it was Friday and Mrs. Eichelberger in 1B was a devout Catholic, fried fish. For a moment a fleeting vision of small hands working a rosary flashed through his head, but like a dream, it faded as soon as he tried to focus on it. Were the hands his mother's? A neighbor's? His own? Had he once been Catholic? He swallowed hard. Didn't matter. Didn't matter.

_Keep telling yourself that, pal. Maybe someday you'll finally believe it._

He didn't really trust his frozen feet not to stumble, so he descended the stairs to the basement with a little more care than he usually did. He instinctively sidestepped the one that always creaked. He used another key to unlock the door at the bottom. It had faded lettering on it that at one time spelled "Maintenance" but now read, "Ma_nt_nan_e ." He touched it lightly before he let himself in. As home addresses go, that one fit. He had some letters missing himself.

He pushed the door open a few inches then paused, listening. When he was assured from the silence that no one was there except him, he entered. He fumbled for the metal chain hanging from the little room's single-bulb ceiling fixture. He yanked it and anemic yellow light chased three cockroaches back under his shabby dresser. The air was damp but warmish, which meant the boiler was working. That was good. It was too cold a day for it to go out.

He breathed a heavy sigh through his nose as he shut the door and shoved the deadbolt home. Then he leaned his forehead against the scarred wood, taking a moment to feel _safe_.

It was a lie he told himself every day. He wasn't safe, not by a long shot. But here at least was some privacy, a quiet spot where he could be out of the weather, warm and dry. The room was a dump, clean now but still riddled with dampness and mildew stains. At night the scritch-scrape of rats disturbed his sleep. Still, he knew he was lucky to have it. He'd met the landlord by chance at the soup kitchen at The Church of the Redeemer the next block over. Mr. Franklin, a big black man who towered over him by at least six inches, assumed somewhat rightly that he was a homeless vet and had offered him a room to sleep in if he could keep the boiler going and fix any other minor issues that the tenants reported. He had eyed Bucky narrowly for a moment longer, then added that he'd also like Bucky to keep an eye out for crime, most of which centered around meth making. "I don't want no meth labs blowing the place to kingdom come and killin' all my law-abiding tenants," he growled in a bass voice that Bucky swore he could feel rattle his metal arm.

When Bucky hesitated, too taken aback by the offer to speak, Mr. Franklin offered to throw in a hotplate, microwave and small refrigerator, since the basement room didn't have a true kitchen. Bucky didn't know a lot about himself yet, but he had discovered that he had a knack for fixing things and somehow still possessed a strong urge to protect people, so he'd dredged up a shaky whispered, "Thank you, sir." In the four weeks since, he was proud to have held up his end of the bargain. He had kicked out two drug dealers, unclogged three toilets, replaced two panes of glass, picked the lock when the lady in 4A forgot her keys, found Mr. Kowalski's missing reading glasses, fed his cat when he went on a business trip and fended off his half-hearted attempt at flirting. (That particular incident offered Bucky another bit of self-realization: he wasn't wired to find balding, middle-aged men with overpowering body odor and whiskey breath attractive _at all_.)

It was a simple life, with small problems easily solved, and plenty of privacy when he got lost in his head and needed to hide from the world and do maintenance on himself.

_Mr. Fix It in more ways than one, that's me._

Another important consideration about his current residence: HYDRA, the US government, and anyone else hunting him (like, for instance, Steve Rogers and his flying buddy) were unlikely to look for him playing janitor in a shabby apartment building on a sketchy block of Dutchtown in south St. Louis. He wasn't altogether sure how he'd ended up in St. Louis, but as hiding places went, he could do worse. HYDRA had never had any sort of foothold here that he remembered. Not that his faulty brain was very trustworthy about most things, but he was pretty sure his memory of HYDRA bases was fairly intact, just like how he still knew to pull the trigger between heartbeats and that Arnim Zola was an asshole of the first order.

His left fist clenched, the thought of Zola and the horror that was HYDRA making the plates on his arm stir and lift like the hackles on a dog. He felt his breathing quicken, felt the rage building, but he shut his eyes and took several deep breaths, letting them out slowly.

Zola wasn't here, nor was anyone from HYDRA. Working himself up into an explosive fury would accomplish nothing save to get him kicked out of what had turned into a good situation, and he needed a good situation right now. He would eventually leave, go after all those people who stole his life from him before they could steal the lives of anyone else, but even after an entire summer and fall living on his own, he wasn't in any shape yet for what he knew would be a long and protracted war. For now, his guns and armor stayed locked in a trunk under his cot against that day when he could go on a mission of his own making and start tearing down HYDRA base by base. He had to be patient. Had to be smart about it. He was still too erratic, too prone to confusion and losing large amounts of time in flashbacks. He didn't know how long it might take him to be reliably functional. Though they were weakening each day, he still fought against urges to _Report_ and _Rendezvous_ , and he still had to battle the terrifying demand of the kill order any time he so much as glimpsed a photo of Captain America…

_You're my mission!_

No. He shook his head, hard. Grabbed a handful of hair and tugged on it until the pain dislodged his thoughts from the relentless circle of falsehoods HYDRA had planted.

"Steve is my friend," he whispered. "My name is...is... J-James Buchanan Barnes, and he has been my friend since childhood. HYDRA cannot change that fact. HYDRA... cannot...cannot..."

The floor seemed to tilt under his feet. He grabbed at the table, missed, and just that quickly he was on his hands and knees, not sure of how he got there or where he was. There was a buzzing in his head, and a darkness over his eyes. He was aware of…

Cold concrete against his splayed right hand.

A cold draft against his face.

_Cold..._

_So cold..._

_Like ice..._

_Ice…_

_Cryo..._

_No...no no not again no..._

His mind shut down.

...

...

...

…

Awareness trickled slowly back. He felt something hard beneath his cheek. He groaned and immediately clamped his lips shut, waiting for the blue fire of shock batons to wrack his muscles, drive them into spasms that left him unable to move or breathe.

Nothing happened.

He pried one eye open. Saw the rusty silver of a metal table leg. A stretch of bare concrete floor. A colorful braided rug by a closed door.

Wait...

A rug?

HYDRA never gave him rugs….

It snapped him back to the present. He groaned again, loudly, then mumbled a string of curses in Russian, German, and Portuguese before his brain finally found English again. He pushed stiffly to his knees and sat back on his haunches, squinting at his room.

How long had he been out this time?

The wind still howled beyond the window. The light seemed the same...

He looked at his watch. Thirty-seven minutes had gone by, but since the watch was analog, it could have been thirty-seven minutes and twenty-four hours. Or forty-eight hours.

Then he remembered all the food in his backpack. The milk. If it was still cold...

His right hand shook a little as he unhooked the sternum strap of his backpack. The left hand didn't shake. It never did, unless something went wrong with the wiring. The buckle unfastened with a small click. He shrugged out of the straps and plunked the backpack down onto the floor in front of his knees. Unzipped it and dug through everything until his hand felt very cold plastic.

He slumped with relief. However long he'd been out, it wasn't enough time for the milk to turn warm. The layer of air by the floor was cold, but not that cold. Thirty-seven minutes, then.

He scrubbed his face with his right hand. "Damn it," he sighed. Feeling as old as his 90-odd years, he grabbed the rickety table and hauled himself to his feet.

He slung the backpack from the floor to the table, then took a moment to simply breathe in and out. Slowly in, slowly out. In. Out.

_Come on, Barnes. Focus. You're all right. You're safe._

He slowly peeled off his wet coat and draped it on the back of his single folding chair, then dropped bonelessly onto the seat. He still felt like he was only two-thirds of the way back to the real world, but a growing awareness of cold, wet feet went a long way toward drawing him fully back to the present. He fumbled to unlace and pull off his boots, then his wet socks. He took a deep breath and, trying not to hiss, tiptoed barefoot as fast as he could across the cold concrete. He wrestled open the top drawer of his battered chest, grabbed one of his three pairs of wool socks. He hurried back to his chair and quickly put them on.

He sighed. Dry socks felt so good.

His feet taken care of, time to put away the groceries. He unzipped his backpack's main compartment and pulled out three plastic bags full of food. The first bag held two cans of vegetable beef soup, two cans of chicken noodle soup and a can of chili, all of which he could cook on the hot plate or in the microwave. There was also a jar of peanut butter. The second bag contained two cans of peaches, a can of beans, a small carton of milk, a couple potatoes, a small bottle of root beer and another of ginger ale. The third bag held three bananas, a small box of Cheerios, a bag of baby carrots, something called a gooey butter cake, and finally the real treat: a Hershey bar.

He felt rich.

He'd gotten it all at the Helping Hand food pantry just down the street, where he helped stock the shelves in exchange for picking up a few things to eat, if they had enough stock to make it worth his time. It wasn't an especially good food pantry, as food pantries go, certainly nothing like the soup kitchen at the Church of the Redeemer. Helping Hand usually ran about eighty-percent-bare shelves with a paltry choice of dented cans of tuna or black-eyed peas and not much else, but today had been a lucky day. The lady that ran the place said each month a truck dropped off surplus government commodities, and this month the surplus included quite a bit of fresh produce and baked goods, hence his bounty of fresh fruit, vegetables and the gooey butter cake, which the lady forced on him, telling him he'd never had anything like it anywhere and that he'd love it. There had been a case of assorted candy as well, thus providing him the precious Hershey bar. It was more than a fair exchange for unloading the truck.

Working for those three bags of food made him feel good. He remembered being a hard worker, back before the war. Odd jobs at the grocer down the block. At the docks. Even selling newspapers. Every dime mattered back then, just as it did to him now. Working hard and working honest had been something James Buchanan Barnes insisted on, and that was something he relearned about himself very early on. There'd been low times in the beginning when he'd had no choice but to steal food and clothing, but as the days on the run went by, he learned how to live honestly. He overheard drifters talk about where to find hot meals in homeless shelters or free clothing at church clothing banks. After learning that, he took advantage of any he came across.

He still would prefer working over accepting charity, though. Pride aside, sometimes he simply needed cash. You can't trade a can of tuna for a bus fare. He remembered where to find stashes of HYDRA funds and had no compunction about stealing their money, but most of those sources had dried up quickly as HYDRA agents grabbed up all the cash before scattering to the wind. Getting a real job was a priority but unfortunately wasn't an option. Aside from the difficulties explaining away a high-tech metal left arm, he had no identity documents. He could hardly fill out job applications with his true date of birth; they'd think he was loony. When they checked his social security number, provided he could ever remember it, they'd quickly find out he was supposed to be dead. Far better right now to stick to the persona of a homeless vet, just another nameless face drifting across the country, part of a populace most people looked past without ever seeing. He'd just have to keep swallowing his pride until the day came when circumstances let him start living like a good man again.

He winced. A good man. As if working a job would undo all the all that blood on his hands. He'd never be a good man, ever—but he had to start somewhere. Stocking shelves, cleaning floors, fixing clogged toilets... at the end of each day, he might not have coins in his pockets but he at least didn't add to the shitload of guilt he carried.

He realized he'd been staring into space for the last ten minutes. He took a deep breath and turned his attention back to his groceries. He put the bananas, carrots and potatoes in a bowl on the table, then he put the milk, root beer and ginger ale in the tiny refrigerator and the canned goods on the shelf above the hot plate. He lined them all up carefully, the labels showing, shorter cans in front, tall cans in back and behind those the cheerful yellow box of cereal. Seeing all the bright labels and the shelf nearly full was very satisfying. Made him feel like maybe he might become an actual person despite everything.

He took a moment to run his fingers over the Hershey bar. He'd eat it one careful rectangle at a time, make it last. He didn't know when he'd get another. The plastic bags he rolled up carefully and tucked into an empty tissue box with the rest of the bags he'd accumulated. He didn't need that many, but he didn't know what to do with them. There was a part of him that shamed him if he wasted anything, some sort of echo of a nagging voice chiding him to _clean your plate, young man. Don't waste anything, especially food, because you might not get to eat tomorrow.._.

He guessed the voice was probably his mother's. It sounded like something a mother would say.

So he stored the bags, for now. He'd throw them away eventually, either when they filled the room entirely or when he worked up the nerve to ignore his mother's voice. He had never given much thought to the more mundane details of modern society. Mission-specific details, sure, but not things like how people bagged their groceries. Now that he was paying attention to the bigger picture, he concluded that the world was about to be buried completely in plastic bags. The damn things floated around everywhere.

He sniffed, then swiped his sleeve across his still-dripping nose. It was marginally warmer in the basement than outside, thanks to the boiler gurgling away on the other side of a partition wall, but the small window near the ceiling, the one that allowed him an ant's-eye view of the sidewalk and street, was ancient and loose and let in drafts when the wind blew from the north. He had stuffed plastic bags around the edges and taped several plastic bags over the entire thing, but cold still leeched through. He chafed his right arm with his left, but it didn't help. After such a long walk through the snow, those thirty-seven minutes lying on the cold floor had done him no favors. He felt chilled him to the bone. He dropped onto his cot, tucked his legs up and pulled his wool blanket up over his shoulders. He didn't like winter. Didn't like snow and ice and freezing winds. It made his brain stutter and shiver and try to pull up memories he didn't want to see and lose all the knowledge he had so painfully regained. Some days were so terrible that he ended up forgetting his own name.

But not today.

"James Buchanan Barnes, Sergeant, 32557038," he whispered, his voice lost in the rattling roar of the wind outside and soft hiss of steam rushing through the network of pipes above his head. Then, because he wasn't a prisoner of war any longer, "My name is James...I mean, Bucky. My name is Bucky. My name is..." His thoughts stumbled. He gritted his teeth. "...is. Bucky. Barnes. H-hello, my n-name is... _damn it_."

He wanted to throw something. Break something. This shouldn't be so hard. He didn't understand why saying his name, or even talking at all, was so _hard_. There was no one here to beat him, to slap him or dunk his head in water over and over until he was certain he'd drown, or hook him up to wires and machines and shock him until he was senseless and compliant and no longer a man.

He was alone. He was safe.

He pulled the blanket tighter and stretched out on his back. Thinking about things he liked and disliked sometimes helped him focus. "I like chicken soup. And carrots. Hershey bars." He frowned at the ceiling. "I don't like...I don't like...um..."

What didn't he like, besides not being able to think straight? Then it hit him, a memory of a table set with chipped blue and white plates, with nice forks and spoons and a clear pink glass sugar bowl and green glass salt and pepper shakers. There was a platter with a roasted turkey ready for carving. He heard voices and laughter but the people remained shadows, a dozen blurred and faceless figures seated around an oval table too small for that many. In front of him, blocking some of the view of the delicious turkey, was a huge steaming bowl of little green... little round green cabbage-y, what were they—

"Brussels sprouts!" he cried and sat up, triumphant. "Brussels sprouts. God, I hate those things." It was an old memory that he knew was real, because he had eaten some only a few months ago and nearly gagged. Revulsion had hit him with the solidity of a dislike he knew had to go way back. Brussels sprouts were as horrible as Hershey bars were heavenly, and he was certain he had discovered that at a very young age.

Encouraged, he folded his legs close and tented the blanket so it hung over him like a teepee.

What else did he like.

"I like petting Mr. Kowalski's cat and hearing it purr. I like things to be neat and clean." He'd spent the first three days here scrubbing every inch of the floor, wall and ceiling. He'd even given the boiler a much-needed sponge bath. The repetitive motions of cleaning made a restful spot in his mind and unlocked some more memories, one of cleaning an Army barracks and another of two women in two different homes scrubbing their own floors. One was his mother, he felt sure of it. The other was…he frowned. Maybe a neighbor? Maybe Steve's ma? The name _Sarah_ drifted through his head, but he didn't know if that was Steve's ma's name or just some lady he knew as a kid.

He carefully tiptoed around the thought of Steve Rogers as he was _now_ , with all the deadly urges he still stirred up in Bucky's head, to think about Steve Rogers as he was _then_ , who was very, very different, at least physically.

_Same stubborn punk inside, though_ ….

He blinked. He wasn't sure how he knew that, but he went with it. It felt right. _Steve Rogers was a punk._ He shut his eyes and concentrated until he saw an image of a skinny little kid in bed with a pile of sketchbooks beside him and his nose buried in a book.

_He grabbed the book out of Steve's hands._

_"Hey, watch it!"_

_"Watcha readin', punk?"_

_"Tarzan. What's it to you?"_

_"You're only on 'Son of Tarzan'? I'm already halfway through 'Jewels of Opar'."_

_"Dry up, jerk."_

The scrawny kid's indignant face faded and left Bucky staring at the wall across his room. So they'd both loved Tarzan books. And evidently he'd been kind of a pill. Another piece of the puzzle of who he was, or had been. He wished he could say what the Tarzan books were about, but he only had a vague memory of jungles and a man swinging on a vine. His brain refused to offer up anything more. He sighed. He still had so far to go, but he _would_ get there, one slow step at a time.

In the meantime, he would reward himself for remembering Tarzan with a bite of the Hershey ba—

" _Here you go, Bucky, your favorite breakfast because you were such a good boy helping Mrs. Rogers take care of poor Steve last night."_

_She put in front of him a plateful of golden, steaming pancakes, piled high and dripping with syrup and melted butter. He grabbed his fork…_

Bucky's eyes flew open and he let his right hand, which had been reaching out for food that wasn't there, fall to his lap. "Pancakes," he whispered reverently. He loved pancakes. He _knew_ he did. Without doubt. He remembered their smell, their taste… everything about them, even down to how to make them.

He scowled. HYDRA had made him forget his love of pancakes. One more reason the bastards would die.

As soon as the weather broke, he would get out some of his dwindling supply of money and buy the ingredients for pancakes. But in the meantime, he had better go trim that piece of linoleum before someone tripped over it, complained to the landlord and he lost his job and his temporary home.

Mr. Fix It had to earn his keep, after all. He had pancakes to make.

_tbc..._

-o0o-

Fan art by [quaintandcuriouspuppet](http://quaintandcuriouspuppet.tumblr.com/post/142462023490/a-little-drawing-i-made-inspired-by-the-lovely)! Thanks so much!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am apparently incapable of writing a fic about Bucky that doesn't include pancakes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky wouldn't let me stop at merely letting him remember pancakes; he clamored to go shopping. So the one-shot is now a multi-chapter. Who knows where this will end up; I'm just following the muse where it leads. I'll say this: Bucky has some... interesting... neighbors.
> 
> Jee oto ta Huttuk koga, the bath pouf is for you. Bucky does indeed gain victories over HYDRA even on the bad* days. (*Yes, I am not above foreshadowing even in chapter notes.)
> 
> Yes, I have now given Bucky notebooks. I'm not going to try to ret-con the story to explain why chapter 1 has no notebooks, though. That chapter will simply stand as testament to those heady days before Sebastian Stan broke our hearts by dropping that little bit of Bucky trivia on us.
> 
> Bucky has a bit of a potty mouth when he gets disgusted with himself.
> 
> A word on St. Louis idiomatic speech, or more plainly
> 
> "Yous" isn't a typo. That's how St. Louisans say "all of you".
> 
> "Hoosiery" isn't a misspelling of "hosiery". Way back in the dim past, union workers in St. Louis went on strike and they brought in workers from the Hoosier State, Indiana, to replace them. These unwanted replacement workers forever changed the meaning of the word 'hoosier' in St. Louis, where it's still used synonymously for redneck or white trash. As far as I know, it's the only locale where hoosier is considered an insult. Apologies to anyone in Indiana; if it's any comfort, most modern St Louisans have nothing against people from Indiana. They just can't seem to let go of using that word.
> 
> Thanks as always to my Betas Three: Nath, Imbecamiel and Nefhiriel.

 

"Oh god oh god oh god!" Bucky leaped atop the cot, trying to orient himself in the predawn darkness and trying to forget the feeling of a _rat_ scurrying across his legs.

His _. Legs._

He may be the Winter Freakin' Soldier, but he could not abide _rats in his bed._

He shoved his hair away from his face. His metal fist twitched, ready to grab the flea-ridden vermin and fling it across the room, but it was gone.

He wasn't sure how to feel about that. On the one hand, it was gone. On the other, it was still alive and therefore available for a repeat performance the next time he went to sleep.

He shuddered all the way to his toes as he let out a wordless growl of supreme disgust.

As he waited for his heart and lungs to stop their mad spasms, he glanced at his watch. 5 a.m. Might as well call it a night and get ready for the day ahead. He would never get back to sleep after all that, but damn, he'd hoped for more rest. As if an early early morning rat reveille wasn't bad enough, he'd woken himself up three times in the night, screaming and sweating from nightmares.

He wasn't sure he had the stamina to face the day.

But two days had passed since he had remembered pancakes, and breakfast each morning had left him feeling forlorn and unsatisfied. He didn't think he could face another bowl of cereal. Rested or not, if he wanted pancakes, he had to draw on whatever meager emotional resources he still possessed and go out into the world to shop like a normal person.

His stomach cramped at the thought.

_You can do it, Barnes. Focus on the mission. Pancakes._

On the plus side, this would be his third trip to the store, a place called Aldi's, so the stress of the unknown was no longer compounding the stress of simply _going out_. He knew, for instance, that he'd need a quarter to unlock a shopping cart and that he'd have to bring his own plastic bags. His first trip there had ended in the parking lot when he'd had to turn around in ignominious defeat because he didn't have a quarter and his stupid, idiotic, HYDRA-damaged brain went into panic mode and nearly shut down on him. He'd had to hustle back to his basement and sit in the dark for several hours before he could think beyond

… _Mission Failure…_

… _Abort…_

… _Mission Failure…_

… _Abort_ …

… _Return and retrain…_

… _punish… punish… punish…_

He swallowed hard. _Focus, Barnes._

That wouldn't happen this time. He would attack the excursion like a general planning an invasion. Every move studied and plotted with care and precision. There would be no failure.

But first, gotta get down from the cot.

Still standing in safety (he hoped) atop his thin mattress, he reached out and yanked the lightbulb chain. He squinted as light flooded the room. He cautiously kicked at his rumpled bedding. Nothing moved. Then he studied the shadowy corners where the light was too weak to reach. Nothing. Not even any cockroaches this time, thank God. He leaped as far away from the bed as he could, twisting in mid-air and landing in a crouch. He stared hard at the space under the cot, ready in case the rat ran out.

He straightened his legs a little and took a cautious step. Listened. Took another…

… _step toward the van. Heard the red-haired woman's voice coming from somewhere behind it._

" _I make an LZ, twenty-three hundred block at Virginia Avenue. Rendezvous two minutes."_

_He crouched low, reaching behind him for a spherical grenade..._

He flinched. Dropped his left arm, which had been slowly reaching toward the small of his back where he used to carry the grenades. His stomach twisted in on itself.

_Damn it, Barnes! A fucking grenade, here? You really gonna blow the building to shit because a lousy little rat pushed you into a flashback?_

He dropped shaking into his folding chair and buried his face in his hands.

_Breathe. Just breathe. You didn't blow anything up. Didn't lose all control. Breathe. You're safe, there's no enemies, no one here._

_Just you and rats and squalor..._

No.

He lifted his head up. Frowned. That was the wrong word. Squalor was the wrong word. He didn't live in squalor. Squalor was...was... trash on the floor, dirty dishes in the sink, flies buzzing around a plate of yesterday's breakfast still on the table. Squalor was living like that family… that family… who were they…

" _James Buchanan Barnes, clean up your messy room this very instant. I won't have this place looking like the Hodges' place across the street. Thank goodness they don't live in this building or we'd be overrun with cockroaches! Now go on, scoot. Get that bed made and put your dirty clothes in the hamper. We may not have a lot, but we will keep what we have neat and clean because the Barneses will_ not _live in squalor like the Hodges, not if I have anything to say about it!"_

Oh. They were a family who lived across the street when he was in first grade or maybe even kindergarten. Their little boy—what was his first name?—came to school with dirty dungarees ripped at the knees and frayed t-shirts that might have been white at one time but had long since gone dingy gray. He smelled, too, but that hadn't bothered Bucky much. The boy was fun to play with at recess and Bucky remembered thinking it'd be really ace if he could be like the Hodge kid and never have to clean his room or put away his clothes. The Hodges had been evicted right before Christmas. Bucky thought that was really unfair, but the kid had played it tough.

" _I don't need no house for Santa to find me nohow. Just you watch, Barnes… he'll give me twice as many presents as you 'cuz he don't gotta stuff it all down some stupid chimney." He lifted his chin and jutted it out. "See ya in the funny papers, Barnes."_

" _See ya, Gilmore."_

He blinked. Gilmore Hodge. That'd been the kid's name. Tough little punk, kinda like Steve as far as looking to get into fights all the time. They'd moved out of the neighborhood about the same time the Rogers' family moved in. Just as well. Hodge and Steve probably would have hated each other on sight.

He wondered whatever happened to Hodge. He had a fleeting vision of a big guy in an Army uniform, a real loudmouth type, but it faded as quickly as it came.

No matter. Gilmore Hodge, if he was alive, was probably in a nursing home somewhere, or living with his grown children, another member of Bucky's generation who went on to live a real life, lucky bastard. How many jerks and bullies and idiots had gone on to live productive lives, maybe even doing good things for society, while he was…

 _Stop it, Barnes. What happened, happened._ Self-pity wouldn't help him reclaim a life from ashes. Wouldn't help him pay for all the damage he'd done _._

He stood up, stretched his stiff muscles and then shuffled into his tiny bathroom. It wasn't any kind of a proper bathroom. Just a toilet, a laundry sink and a shower, all separated from the rest of the apartment by an orange and red flowery curtain that had mildew stains streaking its length. He pulled the curtain around. Even though he was the only one there, he felt too exposed with it open. He turned on the shower. One of the best things about this place was that the water was almost instantly hot, being so close to the boiler.

While steam started to rise from the shower, he peeled out of his t-shirt and his plaid pajama pants, both courtesy of a dollar store somewhere back in Indiana. Or was it Ohio. Somewhere east, anyway. The weeks immediately after he left DC ran together in a blur of unrelenting days of running and tormented nights of hiding while he shook with fever and seizures. HYDRA's drugs were strong; they didn't loosen their grip without exacting a cruel toll.

He let go a long sigh. That too was in the past. Nothing gained by looking behind him, so he looked at his body in the mirror instead, turning his left shoulder this way and that, checking where his skin joined the metal. He pressed here and there. No pain, nothing looked inflamed. Every so often, usually after a fight, the skin tore and became infected. He'd always had HYDRA or Russian handlers to take care of any issues, but in his days alone, he'd learned the value of keeping a tube of antibiotic ointment on hand. He knew he had some enhanced healing ability, but his wasn't as good as he remembered Steve's being. His injuries healed faster than normal, sure, but he also caught colds now and then and got infections if he didn't get wounds taken care of properly. He could go longer than the average man before a wound turned dangerous, but he knew he couldn't go forever. He vaguely remembered a mission where a leg wound… _had it been a dog bite?_... had nearly gone septic and killed him before he reached the rendezvous. He wondered what might happen now that he was free of whatever drugs they'd stuffed into him. He didn't think he'd suddenly keel over, but who really knew. He could only keep a close eye on what he could and hope the stuff he couldn't check kept on working.

Satisfied all was well in the arm department, he stepped into the shower and let the heat and steam wash away any lingering unease from nightmares, rats and flashbacks. After a good ten minutes of soaking, he squirted shampoo into his right hand and worked it all throughout his hair. He had learned early on not to use his left hand on his hair. A missing chunk of scalp and an hour picking hair out of the finger joints was enough to teach him that multi-jointed metal hands and hair care were not a good combination.

He rinsed the shampoo from his hair and worked in the conditioner. He liked conditioner. He remembered having to fight a comb through his thick hair in the mornings. Conditioner made it much easier to manage, especially now that he kept his hair long. He knew he should cut it, but he wasn't ready for a barber chair yet. Wasn't ready for strangers coming at him with sharp scissors and razor blades.

Suddenly a little dizzy, he shot his hand out and braced himself against the side of the shower.

_You're safe, you're safe, you're safe._

He remembered... _a snipping sound, a razor scraping gently alone the back of his neck, talcum powder flying everywhere and then someone coughing and wheezing..._

_"Damn it, Steve, I keep telling you to skip the talcum."_

_"Buck, you gotta use it or your neck gets all itchy."_

_"Then next time you cut my hair, let me do that part, all right?"_

_"Fine, all right."_

Maybe he'd let Steve cut his hair, if he ever was able to face him without trying to kill him.

Probably just as well that he liked his hair long. He'd noticed these days a lot of guys wore their hair long. He might stand out more if he had a neat and trim haircut. He needed to blend in, so that alone was justification enough to keep to the status quo.

His hair done, next he scrubbed his body with soap rubbed onto a bright blue bundle of plastic mesh called a 'bath pouf'. He wasn't sure he liked the sound of it, seemed kinda sissy and definitely not something Bucky Barnes would ever admit to using, nor the Asset. On the other hand, that might be exactly why he used it instead of a washcloth: he sure couldn't see the Asset ever using a bath pouf.

_Take that, HYDRA assholes._

He was learning to grab his victories wherever he found them. Next time he'd get a pink one, just because the Asset would never be associated with anything _pink_.

His metal arm creaked a bit as he raised it up over his head to get to the skin on his left side. He sometimes worried when it made that noise that his arm would choose that moment to go haywire and freeze up, leaving it to forever stick up in the air like he was endlessly calling a cab.

He quickly brought the arm down. Maybe he shouldn't hold it up that high, at least not until he could find someone who could check it out thoroughly.

He finished scrubbing everything all the way to his toes, then shut off the shower. Clean and fresh, he grabbed a towel and dried himself off. He swiped it down the metal arm, then lifted up the access plates to let any damp parts inside air dry. He'd never had any problem with water shorting out anything, but like the fear of it locking up, he figured there might always be a first time. He glanced at the arm in the mirror. With the panels open all along its length, it looked like the fuzzed-out tail of an angry, wet cat.

He snorted. _Wouldn't Steve get a laugh outta that._

He carefully combed out his hair, smoothing it back and tying it with an elastic hair tie. He ran his hand over his chin and jaw. No shave, he decided. He'd noticed that, along with long hair, a lot of men seemed to prefer anything from a five o'clock shadow to a beard down to their chest, so he didn't think anyone would question a two- or three-day growth. It, like the long hair, helped him blend in. And it's certain the Winter Soldier never had a beard. For whatever reason, though HYDRA left his hair to do what it would, they kept him clean shaven. Probably helped that damn mask fit better.

Thinking about the mask made the room shrink and darken a little, so he quickly splashed warm water on his face and avoided any more looks in the mirror. The shadows retreated.

He yanked back the hideous curtain. Thin and flimsy though it was, it still kept out a lot of the cooler air from the rest of his room, and now with it open, his skin prickled into a million goosebumps. He padded naked to his chest of drawers and pulled out underwear, socks, his one nice pair of jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt, this one navy blue with a logo for a Cleveland plumbing company on it. He'd found it discarded on the shoulder as he walked along a highway outside Columbus. He guessed there wasn't much of a market for Cleveland plumbers in Columbus.

He hopped on one foot and then the other as he put on the underwear (bought new, because even though he was fairly inexperienced at the whole taking-care-of-oneself routine, the idea of used underwear was simply _gross_. Not enough bleach in the world). The jeans next, a little more difficult because he was damp and they were a little tight. He didn't know what to think about skinny jeans. On the whole, he wasn't a fan, but the price had been right: he'd found them in a dumpster. Next, the shirt and his hooded sweatshirt, followed by his socks and boots, and he was ready for anything.

Well, no, not really. His stomach was still cramping, but at least he was dressed.

He pulled the box of Cheerios and a bowl from the shelf. Maybe because this would be the last bowl of cereal he'd eat for a while, it didn't bother him as much this morning. _Last day of this boring bird food. Tomorrow I get pancakes._ He finished the final spoonful, then upended the bowl and drank all the milk. A quick squirt of soap and swish of the washcloth and the bowl and spoon were ready for his soup come lunchtime.

He glanced at his watch. Still another hour and a half before the store opened. Plenty of time. He dug into his backpack and pulled out a pen and one of his notebooks. He turned page after page filled from edge to edge with meticulously written memories until he reached the last entry: _I enjoyed reading Tarzan books (try to get one if possible)_ and _Pancakes!_ He smiled a little at that entry. On a whim, he drew a very large happy face by the word. Reading it did, after all, make him smile. He thought for a little bit, then on the next line added _Brussels sprouts_ , adding a little round sprout with a scowling face. He thought some more and drew two more unhappy Brussels sprout faces. He really, really did not like Brussels sprouts.

He skipped a line and then wrote in neat print all he could remember of the Hodge family and specifically Gilmore Hodge, adding _Army?_ at the very end of that entry.

Below that he wrote about stalking a red-haired woman who was hiding behind a van. His stomach gave him a painful jab, so he moved on to quickly write everything he could remember about Steve giving him haircuts.

It would do, for now.

He turned to a completely blank page and tore it out. Then he closed the notebook and tucked it back in his backpack with his other notebooks, one of which was new but the others filled edge to edge with memories. He rubbed his hand along them before he zipped the backpack. Those notebooks were the most important thing in his life right now, more important even than the footlocker of weapons under his cot. Those notebooks told him who he had been and held the key to him becoming whatever kind of person he chose from here forward.

His throat knotted up.

Whatever kind of person he _chose_. He had a choice, now. He could be whoever he wanted now, all thanks to Steve Rogers.

He tensed, but the murderous urges that usually rose up when he thought of Steve and the day his old friend broke HYDRA's hold over him stayed mercifully dormant.

He sniffed. Blinked away the tears stinging his eyes and picked up the pen again. Time to make his grocery list.

_Eggs_

_Flour_

_Baking powder_

_Butter_

_Buttermilk_

He tapped the pen against his pursed lips, thinking. Salt and sugar? He already had those. Ah…

_Maple syrup._

Can't forget the maple syrup.

He folded up his list and put it in his pocket, then returned the pen to its place in the small front pocket of his backpack. He pulled his wallet out of that same pocket and counted out his money. He had thirty-four dollars. Surely that would be enough. Things were a lot more expensive now than when he was a kid, but it couldn't possibly cost more than thirty-four dollars to make pancakes.

He slipped the wallet into his back pocket. He was ready to—

"Oh no."

He needed a griddle pan. He didn't have one. He doubted they sold them at Aldi's. He had never specifically looked for them there, but he didn't recall noticing anything like cooking utensils or pots and pans.

His heart started pounding. He didn't want to have to find a store that sold pots and pans. He had no idea where to even start. He knew exactly ten square blocks of this city, and on none of those blocks was there a store that sold griddle pans.

He rubbed his face. _Breathe, pal. For cryin' out loud, this ain't the end of the world. I'll just have to ask one of my neighbors. Maybe Mrs. Eichelberger has one I could borrow. She's cranky, but it'll be just like when I was a kid and ma sent me downstairs to charm that old bat Mrs. Bedemeier out of a cup of sugar. Easy._

He took a deep breath. Okay, it wouldn't be _easy_ , nothing ever was these days, but he could do it. He glanced at his watch. 8:20. She would be up. She watched _Good Morning, America_ faithfully every day. He always heard it through her door when he mopped the foyer floor.

He took a deep breath and stood. First, to practice. "Mrs. Eichelberger, do you have a griddle pan I could borrow?" he whispered. Not so hard.

He started for the door, then stopped and did an about-face. He hadn't brushed his teeth. Back to the bathroom for that important chore, and all the while he watched himself in the mirror and mentally envisioned himself asking for a griddle pan.

Finished, he remembered to pull a glove over his left hand, then he hurried out of his apartment and up the stairs before he could talk himself out of it. He knocked softly on her door. "Mrs. Eichelberger, it's me, uh, James," he called. Not bad. Only stumbled on his name a little bit.

He heard footsteps and the door opened as far as the security chain on the inside would let it. A musty wave of stale cigarettes and last Friday's fish wafted out as a blue eye under a frizz of henna-dyed hair glared up at him. "Is there a problem? Did the pipes freeze? Is the boiler on the fritz?"

"No, ma'am," he assured her. He started to reach up to run his hand through his hair, then forced his arm back down. His heart started pounding again. He knew she wasn't the friendliest lady, but he hadn't expected her to be so hostile. "I was just… um, I w-wanted to make pancakes, but I don't have a griddle pan. W-would you happen to have one I could borrow?"

Her eye narrowed. "You ain't gonna use it to cook meth, are you?"

"No, ma'am! Y-you know I don't do that!" This was not going well.

She looked doubtful, but the one shoulder he could see lifted in a shrug. "All right. Don't guess you'll attack me if I let you in."

She lifted a cigarette he hadn't been able to see to her lips as she shut the door. He heard rattling noises as she unlocked the chain. He had time for one quick deep breath before the door opened and Mrs. Eichelberger, almost as round as she was tall and dressed in a pink-and-white striped housecoat and fuzzy pink slippers, waved him in. As he passed her, he noticed her rosary beads hanging around her neck. The half-smoked cigarette dangled precariously from her lower lip and spilled a steady rain of ashes down on the crucifix. _Surely that's blasphemous or something?_ "Siddown while I go dig it out." The cigarette bobbed with each syllable but somehow never fell off.

He glanced around at his seating options. Her faded, brown-floral couch sagged alarmingly in the middle. Each chair around her dining room table had a stack of newspapers on it. The only other seat was an overstuffed chair covered with what looked like several years' worth of dog hair, only he knew she never had a dog; he'd overheard her tell Mr. Franklin that she was allergic. He eyed the gray clumps and decided to remain standing. He listened while she rattled cupboard doors and banged pots and finally let out a grunt of what he guessed was triumph. She scuffed back into the living room carrying a griddle pan. She jabbed it at his midsection hard enough to take his wind if he hadn't grabbed it. "Keep it. I never use it now that Frank's gone. He loved pancakes, but I hate 'em. The damn thing's just taking up space."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure, or I wouldn't have said it."

She sounded a little testy, so he hurriedly said, "Thank you."

"Have you got measuring cups and spoons?"

He bit his bottom lip. He hadn't thought of that. For a split second the room shifted and he tasted the coppery bitterness of _mission failure abort mission failure..._ He couldn't stop himself from instinctively obeying the ingrained protocol to drop his gaze to the floor. "N-no, ma'am."

"Now look, kid, it ain't nothing to cry about. I swear, you kids these days are nothin' but damned useless wimps. I've got some you can have." Back to the kitchen she went. Bucky took the moment he was left alone to take some deep breaths. _Damn it, Barnes, she's just a cranky old lady. She ain't HYDRA, she ain't gonna punish you except for for maybe a tongue lashing. HYDRA's rules don't mean shit now, so quit thinkin' you gotta follow 'em._ His heart still banged uncomfortably in his chest, but the rubber and copper taste of failure faded a little.

She returned, carrying a plastic bag that clinked when she set it on the coffee table. "Here." She opened the bag so he could see a set of metal measuring cups, plus measuring spoons linked together on a ring, like keys. She also handed him a pancake turner. "Because I bet you ain't got one of these either. I got a son who moved out on his own into a dump like your place downstairs. Proud as can be about living on his own, but he didn't have the sense God gave a mouse when it came to knowing what he needed to cook for himself. Yous men are all alike, idiots every last one of ya."

She grabbed him by the elbow. He stiffened, but she merely steered him out the door. "I know you'll break something and come crawling back for another handout, just like a man. I got plenty more where that came from, but it ain't like I wanna run some charity shop for hoosiery bums like you. But if I have to, I have to. The Lord says we gotta take care of the poor whether we like it or not, and I won't have Father Schneider hearin' that I ain't been charitable. And I guess the more I get rid of, the less crap my son has to sort through after I'm dead."

She slammed the door in his face without so much as a goodbye.

He stood for a moment, struggling to catch his breath. He felt like he'd done something wrong, done something to offend… he had tried to ask politely… what did he do wrong… do neighbors not loan cooking utensils to neighbors like they used to?

The taste of copper and rubber grew stronger. Voices buzzed in his head…

… _report…_

… _mission report…_

… _you nearly failed…_

… _unacceptable…_

… _wipe him…_

_Wipe him._

He clutched the bag to his chest and hurried back down the steps and into his room. He managed to shut the door before his knees started to wobble. He dropped the pan and the bag onto the table and stumbled into the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before he threw up his breakfast. He coughed and spat and felt hot tears sting his eyes, but he wouldn't let them fall. Tears brought punishment…

The bathroom faded and instead there were men and machines and the chair… the chair…. _No no please no..._

His lungs wouldn't let in enough air.

Couldn't get enough air.

Not enough air…

The room started spinning and red shards of pain spiked through his brain and buzzing shrieks of electric rage clawed at his ears. He smelled ozone and his own fear and something in him broke as the world around him froze into white emptiness.

_tbc..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm evil. But chapter 3 will be coming a lot sooner than chapter 2 did. So you won't hang on the cliff *too* long...


	3. Chapter 3

"Hey, James!"

Someone patted his cheek.

_Don't move._

_Don't make a sound._

_Don't move don't cry don't fight it will only bring pain..._

"Hey, come on. You sick or something, James? You're scaring me, James. Come on, wake up."

_Was that an order? It didn't sound like an order. Wasn't the proper protocol. Wasn't..._

The patting continued, followed by a light shake of his left shoulder, then a mumbled, "Shit. What the hell…" Bucky didn't move as hands tugged at his shirttail and lifted. He felt cool air along his ribs and chest. "Holy shit… what the hell kinda prosthetic is that? It's like… _part_ of you. Wow, I ain't never seen anything like that before." The shirt fell back over him and hands gently smoothed it down. "But hey, man, you gotta wake up. C'mon, buddy, open up those baby blues."

Something turned within the confused muddle of his thoughts. The voice was too soft, hands too gentle. Maybe he wasn't... maybe this wasn't...

Was it safe to hope?

Bucky pried one eye open and shuddered with relief. It wasn't HYDRA. He wasn't in the tank or coming out of the tank. He knew the face hovering over his. He hadn't been wiped. _He hadn't been wiped._ "Mis'er K'wals'i," he mumbled. It was Kowalski, and this was his room in his building in St. Louis, and he was _safe_.

"Oh, thank god, you're alive. Thank god."

"S'rry. 'm kinda… um…" He couldn't get his brain to engage his mouth.

"I come down 'cuz I got a clogged drain. The door was open, so I come on in and found you lying on the floor here. You drink too much or something? Maybe got a bad hit of whatever? I ain't judging you or nothing but, you know… I figure I better know in case I need to call 911."

Bucky shut his eyes. Frowned. Took a deep breath, then another. His mouth tasted like old bile. He grimaced. "No. Not drunk. Not drugs." He opened his eyes again. He was sitting on his bathroom floor, propped up against the wall by Kowalski's right hand pressed against his left shoulder. Kowalski had on a bright red t-shirt that said _St. Louis Cardinals._ There was a grease stain above the C. He was leaning close to Bucky. Really close. Too close. His left arm flexed, and Kowalski jumped back like he'd been shocked with a taser.

"Shit! It _moved_." He stared at Bucky like he was some kind of monster. Not an altogether wrong conclusion, given… everything.

"It's a prosthetic. Military prototype." Not a complete lie. As far as he knew, his was the only such prosthesis ever made. He shut his eyes. God, he was tired. Putting together even that one simple thought exhausted him as much as a day bustin' his back moving pallets of hundred-pound bags of flour down on the docks back in the day.

"Oh… oh… okay. I'm sorry. I shouldna jumped like that… sorry."

"'s alright." He licked his lips. His tongue felt like sandpaper. How long had he been out? Felt like someone had been beating on him for a week. Maybe a month. "Ge' me… water?"

"Oh, sure. Yeah. Sure."

He heard Kowalski's knees pop and suddenly there was _space_ around him. Moving by feel because opening his eyes was too damn hard to think about, he rolled slowly to his knees, then to a seat on the closed lid of the toilet. He heard Kowalski fumbling around and then water running. He pinched the bridge of his nose, not moving until he felt the nudge of a cold glass against his hand. He straightened with effort and gave Kowalski a grateful nod. He downed the cold water in one long pull.

"Buddy, you might wanna take it slow—"

He handed him the empty glass. "It's all right. This happens… sometimes. I'll be okay. What time is it?"

"Little after ten."

He glanced at the window. Sunlight and the shadow of someone passing by flickered against the layers of plastic bags. Morning. Hopefully the same day, but he guessed it didn't matter if it wasn't.

Kowalski was eyeing him like he expected him to burst into flames or shatter into a million pieces. "You have a seizure or something?"

"Something like that, yeah."

"You want me to drive you to the ER?"

"No!" he said a little too sharply. He took a breath and lowered his voice. "I'll be fine."

Kowalski didn't exactly look convinced, but he didn't argue. "Well, do you want me to stay for a while then, just 'til you're really sure you're okay?"

Bucky's first instinct was to say no, but he glanced at the man and saw only uncomplicated concern behind the smeared lenses of his horn-rims. _Not everybody is HYDRA. Some people are just...nice people. Gotta start opening up sometime, Barnes._ "Yeah, thanks. That'd be…." God, why was it so hard to find words? Like driving through fog. Something started buzzing in his head.

Kowalski patted him on his shoulder, the right one this time. "You wanna get in bed?"

Bucky couldn't keep his eyes from widening in alarm.

"Not like that! Jeez, you take me for some kinda pervert? I mean, yeah, you're a good-lookin' guy and all, but you told me you wasn't interested, and I ain't one to be all obnoxious and keep pushing."

"Sorry... sorry... didn't... " The something in Bucky's head started buzzing louder. Words slid away from his grasp.

Kowalski kept on. "I mean, yeah. You just ain't wired like me, that's all. All I meant—"

Kowalski's kept talking, but his words broke up into a drone of meaningless sounds. Bucky blinked and squinted, as if reading the man's lips might help, but Kowalski's voice sounded like it was coming from the end of a long tunnel.

"—me to help you get to your bed, so you can rest up? Oh, hey! You don't look so good...what's the matter—hey, you hear me, buddy? Hey, easy!"

Bucky realized he was swaying. He grabbed the edge of the laundry sink to keep himself from toppling to the floor. "S'rry. I… um…" He couldn't finish the thought. Couldn't focus...

...

...

...

Fingers snapped in front of his face. He blinked. Kowalski's nose was only about two inches from his as he peered worriedly into Bucky's eyes.

"Jeez, you're really out of it. You been staring into space for nearly five minutes, even with me snapping my fingers at you all this time. I really think you need to see a doctor."

Bucky vehemently shook his head.

Kowalski sighed. "Anybody ever tell you you're stubborn as an oak stump?"

_"Damn it, Buck, stop_ lying. _You're not fine! You were sick and God knows what Zola did to you. I found you strapped down to a table barely conscious, for God's sake and now you're staggering around like a drunk."_

_"Steve, I'm fine, really. I just... there was a rock and I tripped_ — _"_

_"Sergeant Barnes, haul your stubborn, sorry carcass into that truck and ride for a while. That's an order!"_

"C'mon. You're going to bed."

Bucky felt a hand lift his right arm. Some tired impulse in him urged him to fight, but he couldn't be bothered. He let Kowalski lead him, stumbling, to his cot. His feet tangled up at one point and Kowalski threw an arm around him to steady him. Just like that other time… long time ago… an arm around his shoulders, pulling him from a table… "Thought you were smaller," he mumbled.

"Nah, I'm six-two, buddy. Plenty big enough."

Bucky squinted. Steve vanished, and it was just Kowalski standing by him. They'd made it to the cot, so he collapsed face-down. Kowalski lifted his legs onto the mattress and then tugged a blanket over him. "That okay? You comfortable? Can you breathe okay laying on your face like that?"

Bucky's lips were smashed against the pillow. He should turn his head, but it was so heavy. "Mhmmphh." He wanted very badly to drift off, to escape the stupidity of his brain, but there was something he needed to do. He wasn't sure what, but it was important. He knew it was important. Something... what was it...

" _I thought you were smaller."_

" _What happened to you?"_

" _I joined the Army…"_

And just like that, the fog in his head cleared. His eyes flew open, and he rolled onto his side. "Notebook. I need my notebook."

"Huh? What notebook?"

"In my backpack. I got a notebook. Pen." He waved his hand toward the table and waggled his fingers. "Please."

"Sure, bud, no problem." Kowalski looked in the backpack. "Which one?"

"Blue one. Pen's in the front pocket. Hurry." _Before I forget. Before the memory disappears._

Kowalski fished out both items and brought them over. Bucky pushed himself up so he was sitting crosslegged with his back leaning against the wall. As soon as his head stopped spinning, he flipped open the notebook and scribbled as fast as he could, putting to paper all that he could remember about that day back in Azzano. The day his best friend Steve Rogers showed up like a miracle from heaven and saved his sorry, stubborn ass from Zola's torture. He blinked away a little bit of stinging in his eyes.

"What, d'you suddenly get inspired to write the next number one pop song or something while you were out?"

He smiled grimly. "Nah. Just… I, um..." He made a twirling motion with his fingers by his temple. "Sometimes I can't remember stuff, so when I do remember something, I write it down."

"Oh yeah. I get you. My brother's kid, he got in a bad motorcycle wreck, damaged his brain. He's gotta write everything down or he loses it."

Bucky nodded. "Yeah. I don't want to lose any of this." So far he hadn't—he could remember to the letter every single thing, good and often very bad, that he'd ever put down on paper. Maybe that was a sign of hope that his damaged brain might actually recover someday.

"So, um, you don't mind my asking… what happened to you?"

"Afghanistan. IED." He probably shouldn't be grateful for a war, but it did at least give him an unassailable two-word cover story for the arm and the stupid, humiliating mental lapses and panic attacks. He kept his face down, but Kowalski must have seen his burning cheeks.

"Oh yeah. PTSD, I guess. I'm sorry."

He shrugged. "I'm getting better." He hoped. He kept scribbling.

"You want me to do anything for you? I mean, it looks like you're getting ready to fix breakfast or lunch or something, all that kitchen stuff on the table."

Bucky ran his hand through hair that had at some point escaped the hair tie as he stared at the scattered kitchen equipment. "Yeah, yeah... right. Actually I was, um, I was going to go to Aldi's, get stuff to make pancakes."

"Was that where you was headed when…" he waved vaguely at the bathroom.

It seemed simpler to just nod. He didn't like the thought of admitting that a cranky little ol' five-foot-nuthin' lady drove him to retch in the toilet, pass out and wake up with a scrambled brain. Besides, for all he knew, Kowalski was Mrs. Eichelberger's godson or something who might take offense if Bucky called her an old bat.

"Oh." Kowalski pulled the chair back from the table and sat down. The metal seat creaked under his not-inconsiderable weight. "Yeah, I got another nephew, was in the war. He had trouble when he first came back. Couldn't handle all the noise and shit. The unknown. Funny how it worked. He could shoot a towelhead—oops, sorry, guess I shouldn't use that term. Ain't 'politically correct.'" He put air quotes around the word. "Anyway, yeah, he could kill a terrorist but couldn't navigate the damn produce aisle at the grocery store. So I'd go with him. It helped. Hey, why don't I help you like that? Whenever you're up to it, I mean. I could go with you."

"Nope. Can't put you to that much trouble. I'll be all right in a little while." _Gimme a week or three. Maybe four._

"You sure? I mean, it'd be no trouble, and it ain't like you ain't done nothing for me. I mean, watching my cat and finding my glasses that one time. Fixing stuff for everybody in the building… I'd be paying you back for all of us."

Bucky sighed. He didn't want to be a burden on anyone. He didn't deserve any payback, any help. HYDRA might have brainwashed him, but he was the one that pulled the trigger, ignited the bombs. Ended the lives. Had he been stronger, he would have refused to do any of it. Would have let them kill him. He deserved absolutely no help, ever.

But Kowalski...the idiot looked so damned eager, like some gigantic puppy. Bucky had to look away. He scowled at his notebook, chewing his lower lip as he considered Kowalski's offer. Maybe this time it wasn't just about Bucky repaying his debts, but letting other people repay theirs. Not that he felt anyone owed him so much as a single kind glance, but looking at it from their side? Maybe. He tapped the end of his pen on the paper a few times, then carefully wrote, _Giving other people their own chance to be kind is a little like repaying my own debt._ He stared at the words for a moment. It didn't really feel true—his own debt was so enormous—but… maybe.

Or maybe he was thinking too hard. Maybe it was simply that he had to relearn the sort of natural give and take of being a good neighbor. Feeling a little more assured, he finally looked back up. "I'll… um. I'll think about it. But I just wanna take a nap first."

"Oh sure, sure. Totally understand. My nephew... his attacks would wipe him out, make him sleep for a whole day sometimes, after. So yeah. You can just let me know what you decide. I'm home all the time. I'm on disability—you know that business trip I went on, when you watched my cat, Mambo? Yeah, I never told you, but I got rear-ended and now my back's all kinda messed up. But walking to the store and back, that's something I can do and the doc says I _should_ do. So in some ways you'd be doing me a favor, keeping me moving, you know?"

Bucky dredged up a faint smile. "Okay. Maybe tomorrow morning."

"It's a date!" Then he blushed. "I mean… not a _date_ date… just meant it's an appointment. Like the date on the calendar…"

"Hey, it's okay. Really. I didn't think anything of it."

He stood and wiped his palms up and down his pant legs. "Okay, good. Good. I'll, uh, just be letting you get on to sleep then. Come pound on my door when you're ready to go. I could even go with you this afternoon or evening. I got no plans."

Bucky felt a little pang of sympathy. Must be a lonely life. "You bet."

Kowalski nodded, then let himself out. Bucky groaned a little as he stood up and walked over to lock the door. He stifled a yawn as he shoved the deadbolt home, then staggered back to the bed. He threw himself down, rolled himself up in the blanket and stared up at the ceiling, feeling a little better already. Kowalski was a good neighbor.

" _James, we must always be good neighbors, so I want you to take this basket of sandwiches to the new family downstairs in 3B. Moving into a new building is hard work and usually you don't have any food in the house because you're too busy unpacking to go to the market."_

" _Yes, ma'am."_

" _Be sure to stand straight and introduce yourself politely, and if she offers you a sandwich, say, 'No thank you, Mrs. Rogers, I ate at home.'"_

" _Yes, ma'am."_

" _Make sure you tell them, 'Welcome to our building.'"_

" _Yes, ma'am."_

" _Offer to help them unpack, though I expect they'll probably refuse."_

" _Why would they refuse?" That would be a disappointment. Bucky was a good unpacker. And he wanted to see what kind of stuff they owned. Maybe they were rich, like pirates, and had a secret stash of gold._

" _Because you're still on the small side." She smiled down at him as his chin started to jut. He hated being called small. "They have a little boy about your age. Smaller than you, but that shouldn't matter."_

_Well now. A kid littler than him in the building could work out all right. "No, ma'am."_

" _Little boys grow at different rates. He'll probably end up taller and stronger than you in the end."_

_Now that was too far. "No he won't!" Bucky Barnes was going to grow up to be the biggest man ever, and no upstart new neighbor kid was gonna cheat him out of his life goal…_

Bucky sat up and jotted down the memory in his notebook. He reread the words several times, smiling a little. The Rogers family had turned out to be the very best of neighbors, and Steve Rogers sure did grow up to be bigger and stronger than him. He curled up on his side, clutching the notebook to his chest, thinking about old neighbors and new neighbors. As his eyes drifted shut and sleep drew comfortingly around him, his last thought was how funny it was that his biggest fear at age seven turned out to be the very thing that saved his life.

_tbc..._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This chapter started out as pure gooey fluff (seriously. There's even a recipe for gooey butter cake at the end, for cryin' out loud), but then Sebastian Stan had to horn in with his quote about Bucky: "Bucky's relationship with Steve may be the only thing stopping him from committing suicide." And then, about playing Bucky in CA:CW Official Magazine, "I also loved the ambiguous scenes where I go back and for the between Bucky and the Winter Soldier…. I'll just say you get a better sense of how crazy and dangerous the Winter Soldier is in this movie." Thanks, Seb. Break all our hearts, why don't you. (Actually, yes, thank you for caring so much about this character and sharing your thoughts on him...and reminding me that pure fluff with Bucky makes for an unrealistic, OOC story. Sebastian's words have shifted the tone of this story somewhat, though I still want to show bright spots and signs that Bucky's coping.)
> 
> Chapter includes mention of suicide, for those of you who may be sensitive about that subject.

Most days Bucky woke up with a heart-skipping jerk, jarred into consciousness by the terror of a nightmare or the unwelcome re-emergence of some appalling new memory. But sometimes, his brain relented. Sometimes, his mind gave him a gentle wakening, peaceful and slow and _normal_.

This was one of those rare mornings. It was as if his brain was apologizing for all the shit it pulled the day before.

He woke sprawled on his stomach, his right arm dangling over the edge of the cot, his splayed hand resting on the notebook that had fallen face down on the floor. He had drooled onto the pillow. He moved out of the damp spot and blinked sleepily as he stared down at the blue notebook cover, his thoughts drifting from one inconsequential thing to another, foremost being gratitude that after—he lifted his eyes enough to see his watch on the nightstand—nearly 18 hours of sleep, he actually felt _rested_.

He also felt vaguely remorseful that he hadn't checked on the state of the building in all that time. Have to rectify that today, he supposed, but only after he'd made it to Aldi's.

He picked up the notebook and closed it, then patted around the bed for his pen. He found it when he pushed himself up and looked under his stomach. He slipped the pen into the wire spirals that held the pages together and gently put the folder on the floor again. He rolled onto his back, flipped the blanket off and indulged himself in a groan-inducing, spine-cracking stretch that started in his toes and worked all the way to his neck and shoulders and finally left him in a limp sprawl.

Mornings like this, he almost felt like life might return to normal in this strange new world. When he went a whole night without nightmares, or at least none he remembered, he felt like he was getting a glimpse of the man he might be again someday, a man who slept and woke and ate and worked and lived an ordinary life.

He let out a harsh laugh. Fat chance of that ever happening, but at least he could enjoy the illusion.

He sat up, swung his legs over the bed and stretched again. The metal arm made the same creaking noise it had in the shower. He eased it down slowly and turned the wrist and elbow this way and that, listening and feeling for any stiffness or jerkiness, like a gear slipping or… whatever. He still wasn't sure how the thing actually worked. He'd always had handlers on call if his arm broke on a mission, so he'd never bothered learning anything about it other than the basics, like opening the panels to let it dry out when it got wet. Since gaining his freedom, he'd been too afraid of breaking it to do anything other than look at the wiring and worry about what he'd do if the damn thing malfunctioned. Try to find Steve, he supposed, and take his chances that a face-to-face encounter wouldn't end with him standing over his old friend's bloody and broken body again. Even as he thought it, he felt the Soldier stir uneasily. The plates on his arm shifted slightly. He shook his head hard. "Steve's my friend," he whispered, and the feeling subsided. He grimaced. If he ever had to find Steve to get the arm fixed, maybe he'd chain himself to something, keep himself contained like the rabid dog he might always be.

He made a fist with the metal hand, then made one with his right. He didn't have to think about either motion. Just like with his real hand, the metal hand just… did what he intended for it to do. It was a marvel of engineering, really, and maybe if anyone other than HYDRA or the Russians had developed it, he'd be in awe and incredibly grateful. Instead, he was… conflicted. It was good having two arms. That went without saying. With its strength and capabilities, it'd be very, very hard for HYDRA or anyone else to take him down. It was a weapon. And that was the terrible part: the arm was a weapon. The arm had killed. _He_ had killed, and his nightmares reminded him of it every time he went to sleep.

He bent his arm at the elbow, then rotated it at the shoulder. He knew somehow it meshed with his own musculoskeletal and nervous systems and possibly drew some or all of its power from his own souped-up metabolism, but beyond that, he knew as much about it as he knew about the workings of flying cars.

_...He trotted after Howard as Stark hurried around his workshop in the underground London bunker. A muffled thump from the latest blitz shook the building, even as far underground as they were. "So how did that car you showed at the Expo work, Mr. Stark? I mean, I know it only hovered for a couple seconds, but wow, that was something else."_

_"Look, Sergeant, I'd love to sit down with you and tell you all about it, but there's a little thing called a war going on right now and you got an oversized buddy waltzing around the battlefield using a cheap tin prop for a shield. I'm kinda busy right now."_

_"Oh, sure, yeah. Sorry. Thanks, um, for letting me see your work."_

_"You're welcome, kid. Now scram. Go find yourself a meal. Your stomach's growling so loud I can't hear myself think."_

Bucky realized his stomach _was_ growling. Little wonder. He hadn't eaten anything since that little bowl of cereal a day ago. He held out his right hand. The fingers trembled slightly.

He wanted to write down that memory of Howard Stark, but he needed food first. Sugary and fast. He thought of the gooey butter cake, which he hadn't tried yet. Cake for breakfast?

" _Absolutely not, Mr. Barnes!" his ma said. "I don't care if you_ are _seven years old now, growing boys do NOT eat birthday cake for breakfast. Finish your oatmeal, and I'll hear no more whining about it!"_

Bucky grimaced. Yeah, he remembered that morning very well. It was the day after his seventh birthday, and he had seen no reason to eat horrible, lumpy oatmeal when there was still plenty of chocolate birthday cake left. But his ma had arched her eyebrow and given him that _look_. He'd risked stirring her wrath even more with a pouty glare, but he shoveled the nasty stuff into his mouth. He might not have said a word, but inside, he had been one giant wail of protest. Being seven years old wasn't very fun once your birthday was over.

He snatched up the notebook and took a few seconds to jot down, _Ma was mean sometimes. Wouldn't let me eat cake for breakfast._

Time to rebel.

He pulled out a plate, fork and knife and put them on the table, then got out the packaged cake and popped off the plastic lid. He cut out a huge square (much to the glee of little seven-year-old Bucky Barnes). He was disappointed to find that the powdered sugar sprinkled atop it had sort of melted into the cake, probably because this was the cake's third or maybe even fourth day of life. Guess he shoulda ate it while it was fresh. He looked carefully all over it, but he didn't see any mold, so surely it was still good. He covered the remaining cake and then sat down and centered the plate in front of him. He had learned, since his escape, to enjoy moments like this, when he was in a safe spot that afforded him the opportunity to try something new. He breathed in the aroma of vanilla and sugar and butter, then he picked up his fork and cut off a small bite from the corner. He put it in his mouth and shut his eyes.

It was definitely gooey.

It was definitely full of vanilla.

It was definitely buttery.

It was… definitely one of the best things he could remember eating in a very, very long time.

It was _almost_ as good as pancakes. Almost.

He sighed happily and made his way slowly through the entire piece, then got himself a second piece, just as large. Like showering with a prissy little bath pouf, each bite he took felt like a blow against HYDRA. His handlers had kept him on minimal caloric intake, wanting him to always be in lean fighting condition, and the food was usually some sort of tasteless scientific concoction that provided basic nutrition without any flavor or aroma that might trigger memory. He remembered having a constant, gnawing ache in his stomach, one that at the time he didn't realize was actual hunger. It wasn't until the fog of drugs and programming wore off that he learned to recognize the signals his body gave him, learned to allow himself to feel hunger and then _do something about it_. Where before he stifled any and all complaints out of fear of painful punishment, now he happily soothed his growling stomach when he had food. He'd gained some weight, softened some of the hard edges, and it hadn't slowed him down a bit as far as he could tell. If anything, he felt a little less exhausted, so long as his brain didn't throw him into a flashback or panic attack. Bad days like yesterday made him feel like he could sleep the rest of this life and still be tired, but today… he felt like today could be a completely different story.

Maybe it was the sugar buzz from the cake, maybe it was the full night's rest or the return of two good memories… whatever the reason, he felt very brave, so despite stirring up the Soldier a few minutes ago, he cautiously imagined Steve Rogers again, not as he was in the past, but as he was now. He firmly kept away any thoughts of Captain America in uniform in DC, instead allowing his mind to tiptoe toward the idea of present-day Steve Rogers as his friend, as probably the only one on the entire planet who knew him and all he'd done but might still be willing to help him, if for no other reason than for the sake of the friendship they'd once shared.

He held his breath, waiting for the kill order, the cold predatory mindset, to kick in.

Nothing happened.

Emboldened, he thought about what it would be like if Steve were sitting across from him, right here at his rickety old table, eating breakfast with him. Steve had always liked bacon and eggs, so maybe he was plowing through a huge pile of both, with a big piece of the gooey butter cake and a hot cup of coffee, stuffing his mouth too full but trying to talk anyway.

_"Man oh man, Bucky, wait'll you get a load of Stark's lab. He builds all kinds of cool stuff, just like his dad used to."_

_"Like flying cars?"_

_"Not yet, but I bet he will someday…"_

It felt so real he was momentarily overwhelmed. He reached a hand out to touch Steve's, to see if, by some miracle, he was more than just a figment of his imagination... and of course he felt only the chipped laminate of his table.

God would never waste a miracle on Bucky Barnes.

As he stared at the empty spot across from him, loneliness hit him like an icy punch to the chest. To have Steve here… to have a chance again to laugh with him over stupid stuff, to argue and bicker, to tease him, treat him like the brother he wished he had always had...

He wanted that back. He needed that back. He missed Steve. Missed his fire and his wisdom and his wit. But more than anything, he wanted desperately to ask Steve if... if...

He shied away from the question he most needed to ask, but it pounded in his mind, impossible to brush aside, impossible to ignore:

 _"Steve, do you think anyone will forgive me? Will… will_ you _forgive me?"_

He bit his lip. Stared at the ceiling and blinked rapidly. Didn't help. The tears came, and with them came crashing down all the loneliness and loss he usually kept locked securely away. "Steve, I… I miss you, pal," he choked, and for a few minutes he let himself break down.

Finally, some of the pent-up sorrow drained off a little. He scrubbed his eyes and cheeks. Took some shaking breaths. Straightening his slumped shoulders, he pushed himself back from the table, wincing as the metal chair legs screeched against the concrete floor. He gathered his plate and fork and took them to the sink. After washing them and putting them away, he went through his routine of checking his arm, showering, dressing, brushing his teeth, and all the while, he battled against the lingering worry that Steve could never find it in him to forgive. That he'd decide Bucky was too far gone, had done too many horrible things. Was too tainted.

Bucky sat down on his cot and stared at the floor. Maybe… maybe he _was_ too far gone. Maybe all this—trying to rebuild his memories, rediscover his own mind—would never amount to more than a fruitless attempt to catch the wind. What good would it do to find himself if he looked in Steve's eyes someday and saw nothing but rejection?

Even worse, what if he lost all control at the sight of Captain America? What if the Soldier took over, erasing all the progress he had made in reclaiming himself? The Soldier was as much a part of him as Bucky Barnes. He might not be easily silenced. He might not _ever_ be silenced, unless by...

He thought of the footlocker under his cot.

The guns.

The bullets.

One small bullet and the Soldier would be silent as the grave.

But so too would be Bucky Barnes.

The world would be infinitely better off without the Soldier.

It would keep spinning on without Bucky Barnes. Hell, it had for seventy-odd years.

He buried his face in his hands. Dug his fingers in his hair.

_No._

_Not today._

Steve might not take him back, but he _might_. The Soldier might take over, but he might _not._ Didn't Steve and Bucky Barnes both deserve the chance to see how it played out?

He wasn't sure he had an answer to that question, but until he did...

He blew out a hard breath and picked up the notebook. He flipped it open to the next clean page and carefully wrote,

_No bullet today._

_tbc..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ON A LIGHTER NOTE!
> 
> Don't any of you St Louisans reading this ever tell Bucky that gooey butter cake is eaten all the time for breakfast; let his inner child have his rebellious moment and let Bucky have his sweet victory against HYDRA.
> 
> If you've never had gooey butter cake… I'm terribly sorry. It's unreal. It's heaven on a plate. It's fattening beyond all reasonable expectations but once you take that first bite, you will not care. If you're of the baking persuasion, here's a recipe that looks promising (I haven't tried it yet, so proceed at your own risk-let me know how it tastes if you try it):
> 
> Real St. Louis Gooey Butter Cake
> 
> 2 hr, 40 Prep Time
> 
> 25 min Cook Time
> 
> 3 hr, 5 min Total Time
> 
> Ingredients
> 
> For the sweet dough:
> 
> 1/4 cup whole milk
> 
> 2 teaspoons active dry yeast
> 
> 6 tablespoons (3/4 stick) unsalted butter, at room temperature, plus more for greasing the pan
> 
> 3 tablespoons granulated sugar
> 
> 3/4 teaspoon salt
> 
> 1 egg
> 
> 1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour
> 
> For the Gooey Topping:
> 
> 1 cup (2 sticks) butter, softened
> 
> 2 cups granulated sugar
> 
> 3/4 teaspoon salt
> 
> 1/4 cup plus 1 Tablespoon light corn syrup
> 
> 2 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract
> 
> 2 eggs, at room temperature
> 
> 1/4 cup plus 1 Tablespoon whole milk, at room temperature
> 
> 1 1/4 cup cake flour
> 
> Powdered sugar, for dusting
> 
> Instructions
> 
> To Make the dough:
> 
> Heat the milk until barely lukewarm, about 100 degrees. Put milk in a small bowl; sprinkle yeast evenly over milk. Let sit for 5 minutes, then stir to dissolve. Set aside.
> 
> In the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with a paddle attachment, beat the butter, sugar and salt on medium speed until light and fluffy, about 3 minutes.
> 
> Add the egg and beat until incorporated, 1 to 2 minutes. Scrape down the bowl.
> 
> Add all-purpose flour in three additions and the milk/yeast mixture in two additions, beginning and ending with the flour. Be sure to scrape the bowl of the milk mixture so that all yeast transfers to the dough. After each addition, beat on the slowest speed to combine, scraping the bowl occasionally.
> 
> After the final portion of flour has been incorporated, increase the speed to medium-low and beat for 5 minutes or until dough is smooth and slightly elastic.
> 
> Butter two 9-inch-square pans; and press and stretch the dough into the pans. (If the dough resists stretching, covering the pan and allowing the dough to rest for 15 minutes or so should help.) Cover loosely with plastic wrap and allow the dough to rise for 2 hours.
> 
> Make the filling:
> 
> Shortly before the dough is done rising, combine the butter, sugar, salt and corn syrup in the bowl of a mixer fitted with the paddle attachment. Beat on medium speed until light, about 3 minutes.
> 
> Scrape down the bowl; add the vanilla extract and 1 egg. Beat until combined, then beat in the remaining egg.
> 
> Add the milk and cake flour and mix to combine on low speed. Scrape down the bowl and give the mixture a final stir.
> 
> When the dough is done rising, preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Cover the dough with dollops of the topping, dividing evenly between cakes.
> 
> Spread topping almost to the edges (leave about a half inch uncovered with topping). Bake for about 20 to 25 minutes, until topping is crisp and golden brown; do not overbake. (Topping will melt and spread as it bakes.)
> 
> Let cake cool in the pans on a rack. Sprinkle with powdered sugar just before cutting and serving.
> 
> Notes
> 
> So important to not overbake; the center will be gooey so a toothpick test won't help; just take it out as soon as the top starts to get a light golden brown and more importantly if you see the edges start to brown. That yeast layer is thin and overbaking 5 minutes can make it too dry.
> 
> I suggest running a knife around the edge after letting it sit for only a minute or two; that sticky gooey best part is also inclined to stick to a pan, even non-stick.
> 
> Old St. Louis Bakery Style Recipe from Chris Leuther's Collection www.creative-culinary.com/st-louis-gooey-butter-cake/


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note about Irish coffee: Nath, being the excellently meticulous beta that she is, researched and found that Irish coffee was invented in 1942. However, I needed it for a memory circa 1929/1930, so I'm fudging historical fact in the name of dramatic license (Nath, in return for ignoring your research, I promise to fix you an Irish coffee nightcap, should you ever cross the pond for a visit…) I thought about changing the drink to maintain historical accuracy, but my great-grandmother, God rest her soul, had a shot of whiskey in her coffee every morning, according to family lore, and the reference is included in her honor.

Bucky checked the time. 9:27 am. The store would be open.

He tucked his blue notebook and pen in the backpack, but he pulled the empty notebooks out to make room for pancake supplies, because today he was going to Aldi's, come hell, high water or HYDRA.

_He was getting his damn pancakes._

He slipped on his hooded sweatshirt and his coat atop that, then slung the backpack over his shoulders and clipped the sternum strap securely. Finally, he pulled the leather glove over his metal hand. Too late to hide it from Kowalski, but he didn't dare walk around in the open with it showing. HYDRA and SHIELD eyes were everywhere, and it was only a matter of time before they or Steve showed up here in Dutchtown. No sense making it easy for them to spot him.

Well, he might make it easy for Steve, now that he'd apparently made enough progress to at least think about him without getting swamped by the urge to kill him. But not HYDRA or SHIELD.

He locked the door behind him and headed upstairs to Kowalski's apartment on the third floor. He conducted a quick inspection as he went. Foyer looked clean, front door secure. The floor was quiet, aside from the muffled buzz of Mrs. Eichelberger's television. He headed across the foyer to the stairs. There was a lightbulb out on the second-floor landing. He heard the usual bass thump of pop music that played continuously in 2A. A quick glance at the lights in the second-floor hallway: all working. He ascended one more flight of stairs. A bulb out in the fixture on the east end of the third-floor hallway, and the floor could use buffing. He added all of it to the running list in his head as he stopped beside Kowalski's door. He softly rapped three times. "Mr. Kowalski? It's James." When there was no answer, he rapped three times again. "Mr. Kowalski?" Three more taps. "Mr. Kowalski?"

This time he heard a soft laugh and heard the chain rattling. The door opened and Kowalski grinned at him. "Yes, Sheldon?"

Bucky frowned.

"You know, like on The Big Bang Theory? The TV show? Sheldon Cooper has this obsessive compulsive thing where he has to give Penny's door three knocks, three times?"

"Um…"

"Never mind. Come on in. You ready to go to Aldi's? You look better."

Bucky nodded. Maybe it was the confusion over whatever the Sheldon thing was or maybe it was the comment about how he looked, but he felt suddenly tongue-tied. He stepped quietly into Kowalski's living room and shut the door behind him.

Kowalski seemed not to notice his shyness. "I'm glad you're better. My back is doing pretty good today, so we should be able to make this thing work. Let me brush my teeth and put on my shoes and we'll go." He disappeared through a doorway, but his voice floated back. "Mambo's asleep on his bed, if you want to go pet him."

Bucky remembered from feeding him that Mambo had a sort of hammock thing attached to the kitchen window sill, so he threaded his way past all the furniture and the stacks of books Kowalski had everywhere. He couldn't help but glance at the titles as he went. He paused to look more thoroughly, because it occurred to him that Kowalski might have a Tarzan book he could borrow. He didn't see one, though. Saw a lot of paperbacks with the name "Koontz" and still more with "Kellerman", plus a lot of what looked like space adventures. There was a bookshelf filled with Tolkien, which stirred a memory that he couldn't quite pin down.

He frowned at one title: _The Hobbit._

Seems like he remembered Steve reading that…

" _What the hell's a hobbit, anyway?"_

_Steve didn't even look up from the book. "Short little people. Live in hobbit holes, out in the countryside."_

" _What, like miniature cavemen farmers? You're seriously reading a book about cavemen farmers?"_

" _No, I'm reading a book about a hobbit who gets asked by a wizard to help slay a dragon."_

_Bucky snorted. "You can definitely relate to little guys trying to slay dragons. You do that every time we walk past a dark alley and you hear a noise. And it ain't like I'm some wizard asking you to. You do it out of your own over-developed idiocy." Steve didn't rise to the insult. Must be some kinda good book. "Can I read it when you're done?"_

" _Uh huh…"_

Bucky rubbed the spine of the book. He wondered if he ever got to read it. Maybe he could borrow this one, see if it rang any bells.

He went into the kitchen. Yellow and black tile, green wallpaper. Black and white tile on the floor. A small table with just two chairs sat against one wall; stove, refrigerator, sink, counter and cabinets lined the wall opposite. A bunch of bananas hung from a little curved hook. Six boxes of cereal atop the refrigerator, none of them Cheerios. There was a coffee cup and a crumb-covered plate in the sink, but everything else was clean. Nice to know Kowalski wasn't a slob. The sink reminded him that Kowalski had a clogged drain. He turned on the tap, watched the water disappear. Must be in the bathroom. He'd have to ask when Kowalski came back out.

He found the chubby orange tabby sleepily blinking at him from his little sling of faux sheepskin. "Hey, Mambo," he said softly. He pulled off his right glove and held the back of his hand out for Mambo to sniff, then waited until Mambo rubbed his jaw along his knuckles before he ran his hand over Mambo's face and ears. Mambo let out a little chirp and pushed his head hard against Bucky's hand as he started to purr.

"Mambo's sure taken a liking to you, James. You should feel honored."

"I do."

"Did you eat yet?" Kowalski pronounced it, "Jeet yet?"

Bucky nodded. Two pieces of gooey butter cake, currently resting pleasantly in his stomach, despite the emotional upheaval that followed breakfast. "You?"

"Had a donut and some Irish coffee." He winked.

Bucky frowned again, not understanding at first, but then...

_"He calls it Irish coffee, Buck. Barney told me his dad drinks a cup while he sits on the fire escape every morning. It's got_ whiskey _in it_ ," _Steve whispered, his eyes wide. Then he grinned. "Dare you to climb up there and take a sip before he gets back!"_

_Bucky looked up and down the alley and at the window to the kitchen. No sign of anyone watching them, so he leaped up and grabbed the lowest rung of the ladder and scrambled up. He glanced in the kitchen window; no sign of Mr. Peters. He grinned down at Steve, then picked up the mug and took a big sip and very nearly spit it right back out. He choked it down, but it burned like fire and when it hit his stomach he thought it might just come all the way back up again. He clamped one hand over his mouth and the other on his stomach struggled not to gag.  
_

_Steve was doubled over, laughing and pointing. "Oh gosh, Buck, you should see your face! You're turning green!"_

_Mr. Peters' voice thundered from inside the apartment, "Hey! You kids get away from here!"_

_"Oh shit, Bucky, run!"_

Bucky smiled a little. He had nearly fallen off the fire escape on the way down, and when they finally got around the corner and out of sight, the coffee _did_ make its way back up and out, right into Mrs. Bedemeier's hydrangea bush. But he and Steve had escaped. "Haven't had any in a long time."

"Wanna cup before we leave?"

If Kowalski put as much whiskey in his coffee as Barney Peters' old man did, probably be better if Kowalski didn't have a second cup. Bucky shook his head.

"Yeah, I don't guess I want another cup, either. It'd just leave me needing to piss halfway through the store." He shrugged on a bright red jacket that was made out of some sort of slick fabric and was quilted in horizontal rows. It looked warm. It also looked ridiculous, but Bucky wasn't about to say anything.

"Sure wish the weather would warm up. I'm tired of winter. Spring training is only about three weeks away, though. You like baseball?"

Bucky shrugged. He wasn't sure. He had a fleeting vision of sitting in a stadium, his view of the game mostly obscured by a pole. "Ebbets Field," he murmured.

"Ebbets Field? Whoa, now that's going back a ways. You a history buff?"

Was he? Maybe if he could remember any history he would be. He shrugged again. No way to answer that.

"Course, they tore that park down in what, 1960? 1961? Sometime in the sixties anyway. You ever been to Brooklyn?"

Bucky nodded.

"I hear it's getting all gentrified now, expensive as hell to live there. That's what I like about Dutchtown...ain't too expensive, at least on this block." He zipped his coat. "Guess we'll head on out."

Bucky followed Kowalski through the living room, but as they neared the door, his heart suddenly skipped a beat. _Come on, Barnes, it won't be bad._

What if it was.

What if HYDRA had already found him, was watching the building, waiting...

"Hey, buddy, you okay?"

He took a deep breath. Gave himself a mental shake. Nodded. Stared hard at the front door and tried to find his suddenly AWOL courage.

Kowalski's voice was gentle. "We don't have to go yet, if you're not ready. We can have a cup of coffee, play with Mambo. Watch a movie. Whatever you want."

Bucky pulled his gaze away from the door and saw that Kowalski was looking at him with kindness tinged with a little sorrow.

"Seriously. It's okay, buddy. We'll go at your pace."

At that moment, Bucky's pace apparently was for his knees to dump him in one of Kowalski's two brown leather chairs. "Um, I... okay."

Kowalski unzipped and shrugged out of his giant red parka. "Coffee time it is! You know, I was kinda lying about not wanting another cup. I'm always up for coffee."

Bucky nodded. "Coffee's good." His voice was a little hoarse, but he was proud of himself for coming up with a coherent response.

"Take your pack and coat off if you want. Might as well get comfy."

Kowalski headed to the kitchen. Bucky unclipped the sternum strap and slid the backpack to the floor in front of the chair, where it pressed reassuringly against his right leg. Kowalski kept his place warm, so he took off his heavier jacket, but he left the hoodie on. He also kept his left glove on. He laid the jacket across his knees and tried not to hunch over it. _No one's gonna swoop in here and steal it, Barnes. Get a hold of yourself._

Kowalski stuck his head through the doorway. "Waddya take in your coffee?"

Bucky hesitated. He liked it sweet, but… should he ask? Was that allowed? Something deep within his mind cringed. "Um… just black, I guess."

"No whiskey or Irish crème? Or I got regular cream, sugar, some of that hipster hazelnut shit. I don't like hazelnut in my coffee, but Charlie Bender in 2D loves the stuff, so I keep it on hand for him when he's over to play pinochle."

"I guess...some...I'd like, um..." The unease turned into a fearful hand that clamped off any further reply. He looked away, tried to calm his breathing.

" _Weapons do not have preferences, Soldier! You will eat what we give you without comment or complaint!"_

He swallowed. He remembered. Remembered he had simply asked for salt. Remembered how they'd beat him for insubordination. For _wanting_ something.

He glanced back at Kowalski as he came over and squatted down just in front of him. Kowalski rubbed his chin, apparently weighing what he should say.

"Sorry," Bucky whispered.

"What? No, you don't gotta be sorry. Really. I don't know...ah, screw that, I do know. Or at least I have an idea. What happened to you was more than just an IED, wasn't it?"

Panic surged up from Bucky's belly. _He knows… he knows… he'll turn me in…_

"Hey, it's okay. You're safe here. You're safe, okay? I'm not gonna hurt you. You need to leave, you leave. But I hope you'll stay. I make damn fine coffee."

Bucky stared at the man, trying to see into his mind, see if he was honest or just putting on an act to lull Bucky into letting his guard down.

He might be HYDRA.

_He might be HYDRA._

_I can't go back. I can't go back. Ican'tgoback..._

His metal arm shot out. At the very last instant he grabbed Kowalski's shirt instead of his throat. "Who are you, really?"

Kowalski's eyes were wide behind the glasses. "Buddy, I'm your neighbor. You know, Kowalski. Just a guy from Dutchtown!" he squeaked.

Visions of other men staring up at him with fear-contorted faces paraded through Bucky's mind. He had killed those men...so many...so easily... missions, every one of them.

Was… was… Kowalski his mission? His turned his fist, tightening the collar enough that Kowalski started to turn red. He scrabbled at the metal hand.

"James! Come on, buddy. Don't do this, man. You're not… this ain't… wherever you think you are. You're in Dutchtown, and we're gonna have a cup of coffee. Come on, now. Cup of coffee. That's all. Come on, look around… it's just my apartment."

He glanced at the room around him. Two brown leather chairs, one of them a recliner. Brown and black plaid couch. Worn and stained beige carpet. Battered wooden coffee table littered with magazines and newspapers. Flat screen television on the wall. Metal table holding various bottles of liquor against the wall. Poster of a baseball player in a white and red uniform. A framed print of a baseball stadium. Bookcases.

It was… unfamiliar. He had no intel on it.

He frowned.

No intel.

No orders.

Nothing on Kowalski…

Nothing…

_Shit._

He abruptly let go and buried his face in his hands. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I just… I don't know why…"

Kowalski lost his balance and fell back onto his rear end. He straightened his shirt. "Hey, it's okay, really. My nephew… he once thought I was an al Qaeda spook, threw me into the wall. What you done just now ain't nothing." He grunted as he got to his feet. "You okay now?"

Bucky nodded.

"You want that coffee?"

He took a deep, slow breath and let it out. Nodded.

"All right, then. Have you some in a jiffy." Kowalski lumbered off to the kitchen again.

After Bucky's hand stopped shaking, he pulled out his blue notebook and his pen. He opened it and jotted down:

_HYDRA wouldn't even let me ask for salt._

He stared at the line for a moment. Then he straightened his shoulders and looked toward the kitchen.

"Hey, Kowalski… gimme cream and sugar!"

_Tbc…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pancakes are coming eventually. I promise.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which we learn Bucky has no clue that Amazon is the name of more than just a river.

Kowalski was right: he made good coffee. Bucky blew across the top of his cup and took another cautious sip. It was still a little too hot, but it was strong and had just the right amount of cream and sugar.

If it hadn't, he would have asked for more.

The thought gave him a lot of pleasure. Bath pouf. Gooey butter cake. Cream and sugar because he _wanted_ cream and sugar. He felt a tug of _rightness_ about the way he was tallying small blows against HYDRA. It seemed like something Bucky Barnes would have done before they broke him.

 _Before they broke_ me.

He didn't have many memories back, but he suspected Bucky Barnes… _he…_ had been a man who fought back in any way he could, no matter how small.

If only he had just fought _harder_...

He put the cup on the little table beside his chair to let it cool some more and pulled his attention back to Kowalski, who was going on about a television show that Bucky had never heard of. Television seemed very important to Kowalski. Bucky wondered if someday he'd get a chance to watch any. Didn't seem likely, not when he couldn't afford one, nor, as he understood it, could he afford a subscription to all the different shows on it. He wasn't sure how all that worked. Didn't matter. Not like he could get absorbed watching a show and risk HYDRA goons sneaking in the window while he wasn't paying attention.

His heart skipped.

_While he wasn't paying attention._

He glanced at the window. Morning sun shining through the fire escape cast shadowy bars in a geometric hodgepodge across the pulled shade. He tightened his hold on the jacket in his lap. Anyone on the fire escape would be silhouetted against the shade, unless they were crouching low. He would know to crouch low, to make sure his shadow didn't betray his presence until it was too late to do anything about it. HYDRA operatives would know that as well.

His breathing quickened.

He licked his lips.

Flinched at sudden movement among the shadows, but it was only a pigeon.

_HYDRA's not out there, Barnes. Stand down._

He pulled his eyes away from the window to his lap. His knuckles were white.

_Breathe, Barnes. You're safe here. No one's out there. Enjoy the moment._

He forced his fist open and picked up the coffee cup. Took a sip.

"… so it's been renewed which is good, because I gotta know if the guy lived or died."

Bucky nodded, even though he didn't have a clue what the hell Kowalski was talking about. He blurted, "Um, can I ask… have you read all those books?" He winced a little. Changing the subject so abruptly was probably rude.

… " _It's rude, Bucky, you always changing the subject like that. Why do you do that? Why can't we at least talk about it?"_

" _You wanna know why we don't talk about it? Because it don't matter how many times I say it, you'll ignore me."_

" _I won't_ _ _—_ " _

" _Oh yeah? You wanna show me how I can take you at your word this time when every other time you've totally ignored my advice?"_

" _Bucky, I don't mean to ign—"_

" _Tell it to the Marines, pal. You might hear that I'm talkin' but you sure don't listen to what I'm saying."_

" _I listen."_

" _Oh yeah? If you really listened, you'd stop."_

" _Maybe you just need to tell me again."_

_Bucky threw his arms up in the air. "I've already said it a thousand times! But you know what, I'll say it again: you can't keep tryin' to enlist in a hundred different cities, giving out a hundred different addresses. It's against the law. You'll get arrested."_

" _Or I might get enlisted!"_

_Bucky balled both fists. There was no talkin' sense into him. None. Why did he even try?_

_He forced his fingers to open. As good as it might feel, actually punching Steve in his big, stupid nose would probably just make him dig his heels in even deeper. He unclenched his jaw enough to mutter under his breath, "God in heaven, how'd I ever get boneheaded enough to stay friends with an Irishman?" Then louder, "So I heard the Dodgers lost yesterday."_

Okay then. Apparently rudely changing the subject was a tactic the old Bucky used a lot.

If Kowalski was offended, he didn't show it. He squinted at the books as if he only just now realized they covered nearly every horizontal surface of his apartment. "Oh, the books. Nah, I haven't read all of them. Not by a long shot. Most of them I inherited from my aunt. She died about three weeks ago… no, I guess it's been four weeks now. Day you moved in was the day of her funeral. She was 93, can you believe that? Worked at McDonnell-Douglas, on the Mercury program, only back then it was just McDonnell, not McDonnell-Douglas or Boeing or whatever the hell it's called now. Popped rivets, so she was a real-life Rosie the Riveter. She was something else, Aunt Marge. She could curse with the best of the sailors, but she was a real lady, through and through. Anyway, she didn't have any kids, and no one else in the family wanted the books, so I grabbed 'em. Gonna keep a few to remember her by, but I figure with the rest I'll just sell on Amazon."

Bucky frowned. He wondered how, still less why, someone would haul their used books down to South America and then sell them on the river. Made no sense at all, even for a world where more things than not made no sense. But, just like watching television, that was a puzzle to figure out some other day. He had a more immediate need. "Did she leave you any Tarzan books?"

"Tarzan? Like Edgar Rice Burroughs? Nah, nothing that old. Well, except the Lord of the Rings stuff over there on that shelf, maybe. I dunno how old those are."

 _One at least is from 1939._ "Ever read _The Hobbit_?"

"Nah. Saw the movies but never felt like slogging through the books. Why?"

"Had a friend, growing up. He liked it."

"You wanna read it? You can have my copy. That ain't one I'm keeping."

Bucky felt a warm glow inside that was all out of proportion to the loan of a book. He knew why: it was a tangible connection back to his old life. To Steve, skinny and sick half the time, who spent too many days with his nose stuck in a book because he couldn't do anything else with his time besides sketch, and you can only sketch when your hand is strong enough to hold a pencil. "Thank you. I'll, um, give it back when I'm done. So you can sell it." He couldn't bring himself to say, "…on Amazon." The very idea was so preposterous that his brain rebelled.

"Nah, keep it. Like I said, I inherited all those books. And it's not like that one's a first edition or something. Seriously, help yourself to any of these books, honestly. I just ain't much of a reader. I might try those Star Wars books, but the rest ain't my speed." He got up and pulled _The Hobbit_ off the shelf and gave it to Bucky. "Knock yourself out."

Bucky put down his coffee cup so he could give it a good look. It had a black cover underneath a colorful paper sleeve. The cover art triggered a fleeting image of a quilt… on a bed… his grandmother's bed. But that quilt had flowers in each square. There were no flowers in any of these squares. One had what was obviously a dragon and another a wizard. The others had a bear, a map and a mountain. One had three people dancing and there was another with people crossing a bridge. But the other two he couldn't figure out. He squinted. A tree with an eyeball in it? A…frog in the moonlight? He scowled. It all looked kinda weird, but maybe the pictures would make sense once he read it. He opened it to the first page, "In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit…" Cavemen farmers. He couldn't imagine it turning into a story that made any sense, but then again, a story about a man swinging around on jungle vines had apparently been pretty exciting to him back in the day. He was beginning to think both he and Steve had weird taste in reading. He closed the book and tucked it away in his backpack. He hoped it didn't take up so much space that he couldn't get his pancake supplies in there, although he supposed he could always pull it back out and carry it in his hand.

Mambo strolled in from the kitchen, which reminded him of the sink and the plumbing problem. "Your drain still clogged?"

"Nah. I poked a coat hanger down in it, worked the clog loose." He picked up Mambo and settled him on his lap. "It was this big lug's fault. If I don't keep the bathroom door shut, he carries his toy mice into the bathtub and drops them down the drain."

Bucky's eyebrows went up.

"Yeah, craziest thing. That stopper is just one of those plugs hanging on a chain, you know? I'll put it in the drain, but he can fish it out with his claws and then, plop, in go the mice. He's always looking for someplace to hide the things. I'll buy new ones—I get 'em in bulk on Amazon—and before I know it, they're all gone. I move the couch to vacuum, there'll be five of them under it. He even ripped the lining out of the bottom of that chair you're in and stashed a bunch up in the springs."

Bucky smiled a little. The cat obviously was afraid someone was going to come along and steal his stuff. Bucky could relate to that. He tucked his coat a little closer to his waist. He also began to suspect that Amazon was a company name, not a river. Probably a catalog like the Sears and Roebuck, but one that let you sell your own stuff. How that might work, he didn't really know, but he felt very relieved at the idea; he didn't like the possibility that Kowalski was so eccentric he traveled to the Amazon to sell books and buy cat toys. His lips twitched as he tried not to laugh at the image in his head of Kowalski in his big red coat, fighting off crocodiles and piranhas just to make a buck or two on a pile of old books.

"You need your coffee warmed up?"

He glanced at his cup, which was probably only just now the right temperature. He shook his head. "But thank you." He took a sip. Just right.

"No problem."

For a few minutes, it was quiet as they both finished their coffee. Kowalski tipped up his cup to get the dregs, then smacked his lips as he plunked the empty mug on the coffee table. "Nothing like a good cuppa joe. So you feel up to trying to get to the store again, or should we do this tomorrow instead?"

By way of answering, Bucky simply put his own empty cup aside, stood up and started putting on his coat.

"Oh, okay. Guess we're going now." Kowalski shooed Mambo off his lap and was still struggling into his parka when Bucky finished putting on the backpack. Bucky didn't wait, though. He steadfastly refused to look toward the window or think about who might be on the street. He marched straight to the door and went through it as if he were taking a HYDRA base back in World War II.

… _Steve lifted his leg and leveled a kick that left the door splintered and hanging from one hinge…_

Okay, not _exactly_ like World War II. He didn't destroy Kowalski's front door. He opened it like a normal person, not like a super soldier chasing down Nazis and HYDRA. Still, he walked through it with a sense of purpose. It was time to quit letting the messed-up part of his brain take the lead. If HYDRA was waiting, so be it. He would trust his metal arm could take care of any goons out there.

Still, it was only prudent to pause a moment and look both ways. HYDRA wasn't lurking in the hall, so he hurried on to the stairs. He was already halfway down when Kowalski's voice floated down to him.

"Whoa, slow down, Sparky, I'm fatter than you are."

Bucky stopped and looked up. "Sparky?"

_Sparks… lightning… electricity…_

"Yeah, ain't you ever heard that? 'Slow down, Sparky, we'll get there when we get there?'"

… _sparks… burning…_

Pain lanced through his left temple. He set his jaw and ignored it. _Not in the chair. Not. in. the. chair._ He knew he was scowling but he couldn't help it. "Who's Sparky?"

_Who the hell is Bucky…_

_Damn it, brain. Stop it._

"Well, in this case, you are, I guess. But it can be anybody who's in a big hurry for no reason."

He had reason. Pancakes were a reason. A very good reason. He felt something dark and angry and unreasonable stir within him, but he just grunted, "Don't call me that."

Kowalski's eyes widened. He may have paled a bit. "Oh. I'm…. Okay, yeah. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it as an insult or nothin', but yeah, sure. You bet."

Bucky nodded curtly. He glanced around the stairwell. Gripped the railing. Took a breath. He was safe. He was on his way to get pancakes, Kowalski was harmless, and he was safe.

But… Sparky? Aside from the more ominous implications, what a stupid name. He continued down the steps, more slowly this time so Kowalski could keep up. He didn't want to tempt Kowalski into calling him Sparky again. He'd gone too many years not having a name to want anyone calling him something else. He set his jaw. No Sparky. No Asset. No _Зимний Солдат._

His name was _Bucky_.

_tbc…_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Зимний Солдат = Winter Soldier
> 
> Author's note: For those of you who have seen Captain America: Civil War, I wrote the very last line of this chapter *before* I saw that one particular scene. So it's just a happy accident, I guess, or maybe an indication of how much we all know Bucky's name means to him.
> 
> Speaking of CA:CW, this is the last chapter that won't be affected by it in some way. (I've seen it twice now; feel free to message me in a comment here, or over at tumblr or ffnet if you want to flail with me). Since my story is set before those events, there won't be anything overtly spoilery. But there'll be little things here and there that will make this story fit in with the movie at least a little bit (my stories diverge from MCU canon at key places, so bear that in mind as you read any of my stories). If you're determined to see it completely unspoiled, hold off reading. If you don't mind a few little details that, when you watch the movie, will make you think, "Ah, yes, okay… that's why she wrote that…", then keep reading, with my grateful thanks.


	7. Chapter 7

By the time he reached the last step, Bucky had stuffed his anger somewhere in the back of his brain, but he still felt raw and jagged, like a cracked pane of glass ready to shatter at the slightest touch. _Settle down, Barnes. It was just a stupid joke._

His nerves didn't listen.

Maybe letting Kowalski tag along wasn't a good idea. What if he _really_ lost his temper? What if his fragile hold on himself broke…

What if the Soldier took over.

He stopped by the door and stared down at the cracked linoleum between his feet. His heart pounded, but not from fear of the dangers outside.

He feared the threat within.

Kowalski finally caught up with him. Bucky gave him a brief glance, then returned his gaze to the floor between his boots. "Um… I don't know if you should come with me."

"Aw, come on, buddy. Don't be mad. I promise I won't call you anything but James."

"Not mad. Isn't that."

Kowalski fell silent.

Bucky still couldn't bring himself to look up, but he could feel the confused tension radiating from his new... friend? He seemed like a friend, or maybe someone who might become a friend. Whatever he was, Kowalski definitely was a man who didn't deserve to be hurt by the violence inside Bucky's head. How to do this. "I… it's just… my stupid brain. I don't know when I might…" He made a helpless gesture.

"Lose your temper?"

Bucky nodded.

"I got a tough skin. And I'm a big guy. You won't hurt me."

 _You don't know how wrong you are, pal._ Bucky chewed his lower lip, his resolve wavering. He didn't want to hurt Kowalski's feelings, but there was no way he could explain why he didn't want him along.

" _Hey, I've never told you, but it's just that I'm a former brainwashed assassin who worked for the same bunch Captain America took down nine or ten months ago, and I think the code words to trigger me are still rattling around my brain. I give you 50/50 odds on whether I'll murder you or not."_

Yeah. This was a bad idea. Very bad.

He took a deep breath. Was he… was _Bucky_ … strong enough to keep the Soldier locked up?

He didn't know.

He'd already lost it with Kowalski once in his apartment and then a second time in the stairwell, but at least the second time he'd done better at controlling the monster within. Maybe that was enough to build on. He let all the air in his lungs out in a loud whoosh. "Okay."

Kowalski gave him a wide smile. Bucky was too conflicted to return it, so he just nodded as he opened the door. A cold wind swirled in, driving unruly strands of hair that had escaped the hair tie into his eyes. Aside from the annoyance, it reminded him he was, after all, about to go out into the world where watchful eyes might spot him. "Hang on. Gotta get my hat."

He turned on his heel and hurried to his room. He found his hat, and almost as an afterthought, he grabbed a plastic bag and shoved it in his pocket. The shadow under the cot caught his eye. His weapons were safely hidden there. Should he take a pistol?

Maybe he should.

He knelt down and grabbed the handle. It made a gritty scraping sound as he dragged it across the cement floor. He released the two latches and lifted the lid. Looked at the lethal, cloth-wrapped shapes inside. He picked up the topmost bundle and unrolled it. His COP 357 derringer. He could hardly walk around with it holstered on his thigh like he did in his Winter Soldier days, but it would fit in a pocket. He lifted it, sighted down the short barrel. The stainless steel gleamed dully in the poor light.

_He stared calmly at the security camera that had recorded the kills. He raised the pistol and pulled the trigger. The camera exploded into shards of glass, metal and plastic..._

Bucky's stomach roiled.

No.

No gun.

He would have to depend on disguise and, should the worst happen, speed and an ability to find a hole to hide in. He flipped the cloth back over the gun and put it back. He spotted a knife, a small black-bladed Fury that he'd found in a HYDRA weapons cache in a rural Pennsylvania barn. He yanked up his pant leg and slipped it in the holster he'd added to his boot. He shut the lid on his locker and shoved the thing back out of sight.

A few moments later he was back in the lobby, adjusting a navy blue baseball cap over his hair. He pulled it as low as it would go. As disguises went, it was pretty lame, but then again, he was relying on fitting in and being a nobody. People didn't look twice at scruffy bums wearing baseball caps low over their eyes. It made them too nervous.

Kowalski threaded his hands together and cracked his knuckles. "All right! Let's do this thing!"

Bucky frowned.

Kowalski's cheeks reddened. He gave him a half-hearted grin. "Always wanted to say that. You know, be all badass like on TV."

Bucky didn't know what to say to that—they were just going to the damn grocery store, not battling an alien invasion—so he simply opened the door and looked up and down the street. Snow still remained in dirty grey mounds between the street and sidewalk. There was a thick layer of slush in the street itself. A bright red Laclede taxi passed by, its tires crunching on the ice and sloshing through the puddles. Its left front tire hit a pothole. Bucky heard the cabbie curse even through the closed windows, but the car kept going until it turned right at Spring Avenue and disappeared.

Other than the passing car, Tholozon Avenue was empty. No people on the mostly-cleared walks. No one looking from any windows. Doorways empty. Rooftops clear.

Keeping a casual stance, he descended the steps to the sidewalk and started east. Though the sidewalks had been shoveled and salted, he still had to take care not to slip on lingering icy patches. He was glad his boots had rubber soles with good traction.

Kowalski fell in beside him on his left, between Bucky and the street. Bucky wasn't sure whether he should feel sheltered or hemmed in. The enemy could come at him as easily from a car as a building. He scanned the street. Still no cars, but that could change in a heartbeat. He imagined a fleet of large black SUVs roaring down on them, imagined Kowalski caught between HYDRA and their prey. He ducked around Kowalski to get between him and the street.

Better.

"You okay?" Kowalski asked.

"Claustrophobia."

Kowalski merely nodded, his expression thoughtful. After they'd walked a block, he said, "James, are you…"

Bucky slowed. Stopped. Felt his chest tighten. _This is it. Kowalski's figured out who I am. I need to leave. I need to leave now…_ He started to turn back…

"… interested in dating anyone?"

 _What the hell._ He blinked. "You mean—"

"No, for crying out loud I already told you before, not me, all right? I got a sister, though. She's cute, funny. About your age. You're what, twenty-seven, twenty-eight?"

Bucky couldn't decide what to say first, to correct him about his age ( _try 97, pal, and no, I can't explain it_ ) or give him a firm _negative, buddy, ain't gonna happen_ on dating his sister. Holy hell, what a bad idea. Setting aside the whole issue of trying to explain his life to anyone, let alone a dame, he could barely talk in full sentences to anyone, even Kowalski. Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades. No. Dating is a no. A very strong _no_. "Uh…"

"I mean, feel free to say no. I ain't told her about you."

"No, then."

"No chance at all?"

He shook his head so hard he felt his baseball cap loosen. He tugged it back in place.

"Okay."

They walked on. It took almost an entire block for Bucky's heart rate to return to normal.

As they walked, Bucky checked every doorway, each window. No movement except for a calico cat in one house who blinked sleepily at them as they passed. Houses gave way to a mechanic's garage and crumbling parking lots hemmed in with weathered board fencing. Those gave way to a more well-maintained parking lot. Beyond it, to the north, rose a towering building that might be apartments or maybe businesses. It was one of those buildings that in Manhattan would have been full of bankers and lawyers and accountants, but these days in this city, he couldn't be sure. Hell, maybe it was full of dentists.

_Maybe it was full of HYDRA…_

He swallowed hard. Ducked his head so the hat brim hid his face a little better.

They drew even with a few houses on the right that meant Grand Avenue was only about a half block away. Aldi's was on that street, but Bucky ducked into the alley behind the businesses on its west side.

Kowalski stopped in his tracks. "Um, James, why you takin' the alley? The sidewalks will be cleared off on Grand."

Walking would be easier, but Grand would be busy with traffic and businesses and people who might recognize him. He didn't bother explaining all that but simply put his head down and kept slogging through the dingy snow. "Sorry," he said over his shoulder. "Don't like busy streets."

Kowalski muttered something Bucky couldn't make out. Might have been a curse in Polish. He said a little louder, "Yeah, well, I don't like freezing my feet off, but I guess it's your parade."

Bucky gave him a grateful nod.

"So," Kowalski huffed as he hurried to catch up. "No dating. No busy streets. No calling you names other than James. You got anything else on your Don't List that I should know about?"

Bucky smiled a little. "Don't like Brussels sprouts."

"Who does?"

"My friend."

"The one who reads _The Hobbit_?"

Bucky nodded.

"Figures."

Bucky smiled again.

They fell silent as they navigated through the snow and muck until they crossed Winnebago Street and finally reached the back corner of Aldi's parking lot. Bucky peered over the low concrete wall that separated the lot from the sidewalk. Nothing suspicious. The lot had been cleared and miniature mountains of snow punctuated the end of each lane. There were perhaps six cars in the lot. Bucky couldn't remember what day it was, but apparently it wasn't a big shopping day. Good. He wouldn't have to deal with a lot of people watching him while he stalked the aisles to find what he needed.

They walked to the end of the wall and crossed the lot. As they approached the shopping carts parked by the doors, Bucky pulled off his right glove so he could get his quarter out. As he fished in his pocket, he glanced up at the sign. "There's no S."

"Huh?"

"It's Aldi. Not Aldi's."

"Yeah, so?"

 _So if I'm saying the damn name wrong, I'll be noticed._ "Why do people say 'Aldi's'?"

Kowalski shrugged. "Got me. That's what my mom always called it, so that's what I call it."

Good a reason as any and assured him that saying it that way wouldn't draw any attention. Bucky stepped up to the carts and put his quarter in the slot of the first one. He unhooked the chain, just like a shopping pro. He pulled the cart free and pushed it back and forth to make sure it didn't have a bad wheel. Last time, his cart had a bad wheel that screeched and pulled constantly to the right. This one seemed acceptable.

Kowalski trailed behind as he entered the store. He pulled out his list to double check what he needed. Pantry goods were the first thing he passed. After some careful hunting, he found a small bag of flour and a can of baking powder. He went to the back of the store for the eggs, butter and buttermilk, then slowed as he tried to figure out where to find syrup.

"Whatcha need?" Kowalski asked.

"Maple syrup."

"Follow me." He led him to another aisle where he picked up a bottle that looked like a log cabin. "How about this?"

Bucky took it and out of curiosity read the label. _Artificial flavoring. Contains no maple syrup._ "What the hell? It's _fake_."

"Oh, you're one of them purists." He took it back and swapped it out with another, much smaller bottle.

Bucky looked at the size and then at the price on the shelf. "What the hell?" he said again.

Kowalski shrugged. "Real stuff's expensive, even here."

Bucky mentally tallied up everything in his cart and decided he had enough for the real thing. He didn't like the sound of fake syrup. Too much stuff these days was fake. Fake wood. Fake sugar. They even sold fake meat made out of soybeans. The world was crazy.

He put the bottle of genuine syrup in the cart and headed for the check out. He knew from the last time that the lady at the register moved really, really fast, so he pulled his money out before he reached her. She grabbed his cart, swiped everything through the scanner and dumped it all in a different cart. She muttered the amount, he gave it to her, she handed him his change, and before he knew it he was pushing the new cart, which _did_ have a squeaky wheel, over to the bagging area—just a ledge that ran along the front windows and thankfully for the sake of his ears, only a few feet away. He opened his backpack and took out the book. Everything fit but the eggs. He pulled the bag out of his pocket. He'd been smart to grab it at the last minute. He put his book in the bottom of it, the eggs on top, and tied it off by the handles.

"All set?" Kowalski asked.

He nodded. He thought about putting the squeaky cart away so he could retrieve his quarter, but hearing that horrible screech wasn't worth it.

They started for home, and as they walk Kowalski quietly followed him as he had the entire trip, like a hulking, soft-hearted bodyguard on his six. He glanced back at him. "Thanks for coming with me. Helping find the syrup."

"No prob."

Seemed like he should do more than just say thanks. Kowalski didn't realize it, but he had more or less taken his life in his hands to come with him to the store. "I, uh… do you want to have some with me?" He lifted the plastic bag. "Pancakes?"

For some reason, Kowalski gave him a sad look before he smiled. "That's nice of you, but I'll leave that to you. I'm not big on pancakes. I'm more a waffle kinda guy."

Bucky nodded.

They walked the rest of the way home in silence, but Bucky realized it wasn't uncomfortable silence. It was similar to the kind of silence that used to fall between him and Steve, back in the days before life turned them both inside out and upside down.

_He sat at the kitchen table, carefully snapping the stem off each green bean and pulling the string off before putting it in the green jadeite bowl that had belonged to Steve's ma. He wondered how many meals she had served out of it. How many times she'd fed him because where Steve went, Bucky followed. He used to worry sometimes that she might decide he was an extra mouth that she couldn't afford to feed anymore._

" _You're worth the price of a meal now and then, James," she'd assure him as she'd press a kiss atop his unruly brown hair. "Your friendship with Steve means the world to him, and to me."_

_He had shrugged and scuffed his toe along the floor, not sure what to say. He finally threw his arms around her thin waist and hugged her hard. She had smelled like iodine from the TB hospital and the cinnamon she put in her oatmeal cookies and the same rosewater that Bucky's own ma dabbed on her wrists every morning. She had been like his second mother and of course Steve was just exactly like a real brother. He loved them both with all his heart, even if he did have a hard time actually saying the words._

_He sniffed a little and tried to swallow the hard knot in his throat. He missed Mrs. Rogers. Probably always would._

" _You all right?" Steve asked. He was sitting by the window, sketchbook in his lap._

" _Yeah."_

_Steve regarded him for a moment, his blue eyes solemn, then he simply nodded. The soft scrape of his pencil resumed. That gentle swish-swish, along with the occasional puffing noise as he blew away eraser crumbs, was the only sound besides the ticking clock on the shelf, the snipping noise each time he snapped the end off a green bean and the soft plink of the bean against the side of the bowl as he tossed each one in._

Bucky's foot slid on an icy patch. He flailed his arms a little, the bag of eggs swinging wildly in his left hand. Kowalski without a word grabbed his right elbow to steady him, then let go as soon as Bucky found his footing again. Bucky nodded, Kowalski nodded back, and they continued on.

They made it back to their building without further incident. Bucky used his key to open the door, and they stamped their feet on the mat. After an awkward moment, Bucky nodded. "Thanks," he said softly and headed for the stairs to his room.

He needed to write down all the good things and the not so good things that had happened today. Getting triggered, overcoming it, a good walk on a cold day... making a friend.

Yes, a lot to write in his notebook, but first things first: he had pancakes to fix.

At last.

_****tbc..._


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter in particular includes some CACW spoilers. Hold off reading if you haven't seen the film. It will be waiting upon your return to consciousness after you're carried out of the theater by emergency personnel...

Bucky unlocked his door and listened. Silence. He let himself in and put his backpack and the bag with his eggs and the book on the table. He smiled a little as he re-locked the door. He could almost taste the pancakes.

He shrugged out of his jacket and hoodie and draped both on the back of the chair, then put the eggs, butter and buttermilk in the refrigerator and the flour, baking powder and syrup on the shelf. He realized that putting it all away was completely wasted effort since he'd be getting them all out again in a short time, but there was something very satisfying about doing little things like buying one's own groceries and putting it all away where it belonged. It made him feel like he might actually call this… home.

He took a deep breath and let it slowly out as he considered the word _home._ When was the last time he had a home, an actual safe place where he was comfortable and there were people around him who loved him and cared for him?

" _Get your stinky boots offa my cot, Barnes. Whaddya think this is, your own private palace or somethin'?"_

" _Dum Dum, pal, as far as I'm concerned, this is_ home _, or as close to it as I can make it, and when I'm home, I put my feet up on a footstool. There ain't a footstool, so I'm using your cot."_

" _Ain't no way you can turn this into home, Barnes. Home is stateside, where I can go down to my favorite bar and get a bowl of clam chowder and a beer and read in the paper that the Red Sox beat the Yanks. That's home." His mustache turned down at the ends. "Not this mud pit of a war zone where it's nothin' but brown mud and gray skies and your friends dyin' all around you."_

Without another word, he'd pulled his boots off Dum Dum's bed.

Had that been the way Bucky Barnes was, before? Had he been one of those people who carved out a home no matter where he found himself?

Could he still be that way now, despite everything?

He looked around his little place. Looked past the ugly concrete walls. He looked at the blues, oranges, reds and yellows of the food labels. The green plaid towel draped on the side of the sink. He turned his head and saw his bed, the blue and brown plaid blanket neatly in place, the blue notebook and yellow pencil on the nightstand by the clock. Finally, he looked at the little braided rug that he'd found stuffed in with the brooms and bucket in the cleaning closet off the lobby. It was nearly every color in the rainbow. It had made a quiet spot in his mind to look at, so he had run it through the wash and put it in front of his door.

It surprised him to discover that he was, without realizing it, making this drab, dank little room a home. His home.

All _his._

He'd been offered this place, and he had agreed, and now he was slowly making it _his,_ with color, softness and comfort, and with food that he chose himself. When he was ready to make the pancakes, he would pull out _his_ flour and _his_ equipment and cook them _himself..._ because _he_ wanted to. Because he was _home_.

He wondered if he really deserved a home.

_Don't go there, Barnes._

He ran his hand over his face and then around the back of his neck. Maybe he didn't deserve this, but it seemed like letting HYDRA win all over again if he didn't at least try to live a life. Maybe for now he'd leave the self-castigation for his dreams.

He glanced at the griddle pan sitting on the table. Much as he wanted pancakes, he decided he needed to write down the day's events first. He didn't trust his mind not to lose the details, especially the situations that triggered the Soldier response. He needed to keep track of those, figure out a pattern, a catalyst, anything. He had no idea how to ever purge that part of his mind, but maybe someday he might run into someone he could trust who had a bright mind and the know-how to help him.

_Steve could help you…_

No. It was too soon to look for Steve. Too risky.

But someday… maybe. Whether it was Steve or someone else, when the time came, Bucky wanted to simply hand over the notebooks instead of trying to verbally explain it all. Just the thought of having to actually speak aloud all the things in his past made him feel like vomiting.

He swallowed hard and pulled out a fresh new notebook. This one had a green cover. All his notebooks had blue, purple or green covers, or artwork that he liked the look of. One had a puppy, another a kitten. The first one he'd ever bought was black with white speckles all over it that hinted vaguely of his childhood, though he wasn't sure why.

None of them were red.

He found his pen and pulled off the lid. He liked ballpoint pens. They were cheap and plentiful. Half the time he didn't even have to buy them; businesses and charities stamped their names on them and gave them away for free. Even the cheapest ones wrote smoothly and never leaked like the fountain pens he used growing up. Ballpoint pens were a modern development that had his 100-percent approval.

The pen he was currently using had a white barrel with "Roosevelt Bank" printed on it in green, along with an address on Gravois, which ran east-west a block to the north. He had noticed that lots of roads and neighborhoods in the city had French names. He tried to remember his American history so he could understand why, but it was too many years and too many mind wipes ago. Maybe he'd ask Kowalski about it. He might even have a book about it. Bucky tapped the pen against his lips. He needed to find a library, quit relying on Kowalski to explain everything, in case the IED-caused brain damage ruse stopped working and Kowalski grew suspicious.

He opened the notebook to the first page and in the upper corner wrote, "Ask about libraries." Then he continued writing and didn't stop until he'd filled six pages, front and back, with everything he could remember of the day. Writing about the Soldier moments stirred uneasy shadows in his head, but he hurriedly put the words to paper and moved on to write down everything about grocery shopping. When he finished, he looked over all of it and was glad to see most of it was positive. It had been one of the rare good days.

Duty done, he put the notebook on the nightstand. He then went to the table and sorted out the griddle pan and measuring cups and spoons. The griddle pan he put on one burner of the hotplate and turned to medium. He didn't want it getting too hot, because then the pancakes would burn on the outside and stay runny inside. Setting the burner too cool would make them cook too slow and get tough. It was a delicate balance. He got out his small saucepan and put it on the other burner, also set to medium, so he could melt the butter.

He didn't have a true mixing bowl, so he pulled out his biggest saucepan and put it on the table. He also didn't have a proper whisk, but he had a fork. It would take longer to stir and leave more lumps, but pancakes were usually better with a few lumps in the batter. Shouldn't be too much of a problem.

He got down all the groceries he'd just put away, plus the salt and sugar, and lined them all up on the table. He rubbed his hands together and got started. Roughly half a stick of butter into the saucepan, then while it was melting he readied the dry ingredients, relying on long-dormant eyeballing skills to tell him how much of everything. After only one mishap with the flour (one lousy sneeze and suddenly he looked like a damn snowman), he sifted it all together. He added an egg, most of the melted butter, and the buttermilk. He carefully stirred it until it was all mixed together but still a little lumpy.

Time to let it rest.

Five minutes of pacing later, he held his right hand an inch off the griddle. Felt warm but not too warm. He took the remainder of his stick of butter and rubbed the end all over the griddle. The butter immediately bubbled up and sizzled a little, but it didn't smoke. He nudged the burner knob a teeny bit cooler, just to be sure, then he took the saucepan in his left hand and very slowly and carefully poured a neat circle of batter onto the griddle.

Then he watched.

After a minute or so, a few bubbles formed around the edges and slowly burst. He smiled as more bubbles formed and popped, starting at the edges but working toward the middle. When the entire pancake was covered in slowly popping bubbles, he waited just a moment longer than he wanted (because he remembered he used to be too impatient) and then slid the pancake turner under it and with a flick of his wrist neatly flipped the pancake over. The side that had been cooking was a perfect, uniform brown surrounded with a lighter ring around the circumference. He watched the pancake slowly rise up and smiled again.

_I've still got the touch._

The second side never took as long, so he grabbed a plate and flipped the pancake onto it as soon as the edges looked fairly dry. It looked so good that he decided to skip cooking any more for the moment, instead grabbing the butter and slathering a big chunk on it. He opened the syrup bottle and drizzled a beautiful stream of golden maple goodness over the pancake. He took a deep breath, letting the aroma tease out memory after memory of who he had once been.

_A Brooklyn kitchen and morning sunshine filtering through white lace curtains, a red checked table cloth and his feet dangling because he was too short to reach the floor. A plate of pancakes in front of him and his father behind a big newspaper across from him…_

He had to sit down.

He hadn't expected such an onslaught of memories and it was… too much. Too much. Tears burned his eyes, and for a moment he couldn't see.

God, all this just from the _smell_.

He took a deep breath and cut off a bite with his fork. Put it in his mouth. Chewed.

It was… it was… _heaven_. It was his childhood. It was every memory he still had of Steve and Steve's ma and his own ma. It was the kitchen and his dad with his newspaper and his ma at the stove and his sisters…

_His sisters._

"Oh God," he whispered. His breathing stopped. His family… his sisters… he had _sisters._

_He had forgotten he had sisters._

Rebecca—Becca—and… and… he couldn't remember the names of the other two. How could he not remember their names? They were his _family._ What kind of goddamned monster forgets the names of his own family? He clenched his fists, scowling, trying to will his brain to come up with the two names, but he couldn't, and it was the most horrible feeling imaginable. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

They had all lived and likely died believing him dead. And he in turn had lived, if that's what you wanted to call his existence, never knowing about their lives. Never knowing if they had gone to prom or graduated as valedictorians from high school or got married or had children.

Children...oh god, was he an _uncle?_

How would he know? Who could he ask?

Steve might know.

_"What the hell, Buck, they're your sisters and you can't even remember their names?"_

Bucky's cheeks burned with shame. No, he could never ask. Never.

But… he wanted to know. Had to know. Were they all gone? Was Becca, his sassy, sweet favorite—he remembered that much at least—gone, just like everything else he had ever loved?

He dropped the fork onto the plate and buried his head in the crook of his arm and let the tears flow. He felt hollowed out inside… frightened of the empty spaces in his head and what they once held, but needing to know all he had lost. Longing to know… longing to…

_Longing…_

_желание…_

"No!" He shoved himself away from the table. Pulled at his hair as he stumbled to his backpack and fumbled in it for the black and white notebook, the first notebook he'd started putting his memories into four months ago and the one he turned to when he heard the Russian words worming into his mind, the ones they used to turn him…

His hands shook as he flipped it open and started reading the good memories, the ones that grounded him and chased away the voice in his head that sometimes was so real he feared it might actually stir the darkness within. His eyes latched onto the words…

_My name is Bucky._

_32557038_

_Steve Rogers is my friend._

_We liked going to Coney Island. One time I dared him to ride the Cyclone. He threw up._

_He stuffed his shoes with newspapers?_

_His mom's name was Sarah. Nurse._

He read the words over and over, then he held his breath. Stared at the wall.

Silence except for the ever-present hiss of steam in the pipes overhead.

The voice was gone.

He threw the book down and collapsed on the bed, sweating and gasping as if he'd just finished a twenty-mile fast march back to base. "Oh god."

He never would have dreamed pancakes would come with landmines. Although with his life… yeah, it shouldn't really be a shock.

He sat up and looked at the mess in his kitchen. Any other time he'd curl up under a blanket and recite his lists of good things, but damn it… he still wanted pancakes.

He hauled himself over to the table. Took the plate and dumped the now-cold pancake into the trash, then checked the griddle. The butter on it had browned too much, so he grabbed a towel in his left hand and wiped it clean. He rubbed more butter across it. The pancake batter was still perfectly good, so he gave it a few stirs and then poured out three small pancakes. This time he'd have a proper stack before he allowed himself a taste. The smell drove him to distraction, but finally he had them ready on the plate, drenched in melting butter and syrup. He took the fork and sliced through three layers of fluffy, maple goodness and lifted it toward his mouth.

_"Here, Steve." He pushed the plate of buckwheat pancakes over to Steve. "Just try to tell me these wheats ain't a thousand times better than those tough pieces a' leather the hash house on the corner calls pancakes."_

_Steve cut off a bite and stuffed it in his mouth. He chewed carefully, raising an eyebrow and trying to look like some kinda high-hat food critic tasting a fancy steak from Delmonico's._

" _Come on, punk…can the act and gimme the goods already."_

_Steve swallowed, pursed his lips, then grinned as he stuffed his mouth full with a second bite. He gave him the thumbs up._

Bucky smiled. He raised his bite of fluffy pancake to the empty chair across from him. "Here's to you, punk," he whispered, "and fuck you, HYDRA."

He shoveled it in.

Heaven.

-the end-

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... Bucky finally got his pancakes, and in so doing, he brings this story to a close. He's not done in St. Louis, though. He has to change those lightbulbs and buff the floor. He also needs to find the library. And try Ted Drewes frozen custard and toasted ravioli on The Hill. And maybe Kowalski will coax him to go up in the Arch. Who knows. Maybe hell will freeze over and Mrs. Eichelberger will actually be polite to him. The possibilities are endless, at least until he gets the heebie-jeebies and decides to move on and somehow end up in Romania, if I choose to link my fics to Civil War. Jury's still out on that one. Thanks to all the readers and reviewers and subscribers and favorite-ers!
> 
> Stay tuned for Bucky's continuing adventures in reclaiming himself and flipping the bird at HYDRA.
> 
> Glossary/trivia:
> 
> There were, at one time, Roosevelt Banks in St. Louis, but they've long since been bought out or shut down. I simply resurrected the name for Bucky's pen because it reminded me of my childhood. There was indeed one on Gravois (pronounced "GRA-voy", if you're curious), but I don't think it was near the imaginary 3-story building I built on the very real Tholozan Avenue (which probably isn't all that sketchy… that's also dramatic license, though the street isn't exactly full of fancy houses).
> 
> 1930s slang:
> 
> Stack of wheats – pancakes
> 
> Hash house – cheap restaurant
> 
> High hat – rich person
> 
> Gimme the goods – tell me
> 
> Delmonico's – restaurant in New York City known for its namesake steak; the original Delmonico's would have been closed by Bucky & Steve's time, but it's such an icon of fine dining (indeed, the original is credited as the first fine dining establishment in the US) that referring to "Delmonico's" to denote a quality restaurant is still something people do even today, despite the ups and downs of its history.
> 
> Black and white marble-covered composition notebooks were indeed around in the 1930s. My father used them in school.


End file.
